


Gone

by themoonandotherslikeit



Category: SPN, Supernatural
Genre: Addiction, Destiel - Freeform, Detective, Drugs, Language, M/M, Major Character Injury, Mortician, Suggestive Material, dark!fic, detective!Winchester, graphic!images, morgue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:54:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 26,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24078574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themoonandotherslikeit/pseuds/themoonandotherslikeit
Summary: Doctor Castiel Novak wasn’t normal. The most human interaction he received was with the cadavers that came across his table, just reduced to numbers and cause of death. It was easier that way. Corpses don’t ask questions, require eye contact, or judge. They just lie there, or at least they’re supposed to.When a body disappears from his lab, Castiel begins to question everything he knows to be true. Working alongside rookie detective Dean Winchester he finds himself falling deeper into the divots of his own mind as the pieces of the case come together.As Castiel questions his own sanity, he finds that the beautiful green eyed detective may be his only light in the darkness, and his only escape from himself.
Relationships: Destiel
Comments: 20
Kudos: 30
Collections: Perfect Pair Bang 2020 (Official)





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by [Deancebra](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24229972) and Beta'd by @meowmeowsamurai

Castiel Novak’s obsession with dead things started when he was just six years old. His neighbors had this cat that the kids, fondly, called Lumpy. Her real name was something complicated, some four syllable name that was after someone that they’d never heard of, so to them she was just Lumpy. She bumbled around the neighborhood meowing at everything with a blatant disapproval that is unique to cats. 

His father was a writer, constantly locked in his study, so Castiel spent most of his time wandering around. During the late autumn months, he sat on his porch crudely carving his Jack-O-Lantern with no supervision. He planned to carve a simple smile on the front of it with wide round eyes and a big open mouth. 

He was focusing intensely when the familiar yowl of Lumpy danced through the chilled air. “Come here, Lumpy, you ugly cat,” he called out, not thinking too much about it as his eyes still focused on his blade sawing through the flesh on the pumpkin. He pursed his lips, making a kissing noise, wondering what was taking the fat cat so long. Usually she would be at his calf, rubbing and begging for pumpkin pieces by then. 

Castiel looked up, his attention sparked just as the wet angry screech of car breaks broke through the afternoon air. The driver was gone before he could even run into the street. He stuck his hands under Lumpy, peeling her sticky, blood soiled body off of the asphalt. Her head lulled, her lifeless eyes open and accusing. 

He knew he had to help her, so he tucked her against his chest, matted wet fur sticking to his cotton t-shirt. He took her to his porch and laid her out. In the mind of a child, he needed to fix the pieces that were broken on her, and then she would wake up. So he took out his carving blade, pulling it from his pumpkin and began carving out the pieces of rock. He shaved away the pieces of skin that were worn away from the tire tread. “It’s okay Lumpy, I’ll save you,” he murmured to her sweetly, like she was merely sleeping. 

Castiel plucked at her broken, flattened ribs with slick, trembling fingers. Perhaps if he reconnected all of her pieces she would begin to meow and purr just as he knew her. It was only once his father stepped out onto the porch with his reading glasses perched on his nose, and his pen fell from between his lips and bounced off the leather tie on his house shoe, that Castiel realized that he was gravely mistaken. 

“Castiel what have you done?”

“I’m trying to fix her,” he pleaded, staring up at his father as congealing, dead blood rolled down his forearms to his elbows, “I have to fix her.” 

His father was rightly horrified and Castiel went to a child therapist for five years. He hadn’t been enthralled with death before his at length discussions with his therapist. He just wanted to help her, but she wasn’t so convinced. She thought that he found a thrill from the blade, from the slicing skin, from the pearl white bone against crimson red blood. He didn’t find thrill in it. At least he didn’t when he’d been trying to help Lumpy, the thrill came much later when his therapist unbuttoned her top and breathed whiskey onto his neck. He bit into her throat drawing blood, requiring six complex stitches, but Castiel never had to see her again. 

He was an exceptional student, and he was fascinated by biology. He loved to take apart technology and put it back together, and the idea that it could be done with people was fascinating. He could heal someone,  _ fix  _ them. It didn’t take long for him to decide that he wanted to be a surgeon. He never went on dates, even though he was easily one of the best looking guys at his school. He graduated at the top of his class as the weird loner who wore the same three t-shirts every week. He couldn’t bother to care about fashion, romance, or anything that would distract him from getting into the best pre-med program in the states. It was no surprise to anyone that knew him that he got into both Harvard Med and the best residency program. His bedside manner was poor at best, he was awkward, and he didn’t understand much about social queues, usually missing the beat, but he was a damn good surgeon.  _ Was  _ being the operative word. 

The tape whirred inside of Castiel Novak’s recorder. “September 21st, examination of Jacob Stevenson.” 

There was something in the air the night that everything changed. It was a full moon, and maybe that’s why the leaves were blowing, crackling against windows like a hard autumn rain. Castiel felt a chill as he walked out of his stale, one bedroom apartment, but he didn’t turn back for another layer to trap in the warmth. He’d rather be cold, sometimes a feeling was better than feeling nothing at all, even if it was unpleasant. 

He was used to being cold, it was part of the job. Most medical examiners he met were clad in turtlenecks up to their chins, thick layers, and a pale disposition as if they’d never seen the sun. He blended in with them, just another faceless shape in a crowd. He wasn’t always that way, though. Despite his horrid bedside manner, he was described as  _ bright _ by those who met him. His skin glowed with the fresh tan of a man who played a lot of golf or read medical textbooks outside on benches. 

“Caucasian male, age 71, approximately 1.6 meters tall, weighs 83 kilograms. Note a yellowing at his fingertips likely from years of smoking.” He clicked the tape off and set it back down on his instrument table. He took a swab out of its packaging and carefully ran it across the man’s fingertips. He collected a sample from under his nails, the inside of his cheek, along his bottom lip, bagging each piece he collected for testing. 

He knew what he expected to find: years of heart disease, smokers lungs, too many homemade cupcakes from his loving wife. He would see a body aged by a life that was  _ lived.  _ That was the goal, wasn’t it?

“I’m sorry that this happened to you, Mr. Stevenson. Rest well.” 

He closed his eyes, clasping his surgical gloved hands and said a silent prayer for his soul, wherever it may be. He wasn’t a believer, not really, not anymore. He just had to say goodbye to the spirit, to disconnect himself from the person that used to be inside of the skin. He had to separate himself so that he could make that first cut.

He undressed Mr. Stevenson, unbuttoning his sleep shirt. His pale, wrinkled flesh spilled and pressed against the cool metal of the autopsy table. He pressed his scalpel into the man's skin, across his chest and down his stomach in a Y shape. There was no blood. That stopped after death, settled and clotted. 

He liked cases like Mr. Stevenson. He passed in his sleep. He was old, and his heart gave out. Dying old and peacefully was the goal. There wasn’t a lot of peace to be found in life and all that Castiel could really hope for was peace in death. It was called an eternal rest for a reason, right? He removed the organs one by one, weighing them on the scale. He made notes of any odd coloring, biopsied anything that was abnormal. 

People often asked him why he worked with the dead. Well, not  _ often _ . People didn’t often speak to him at all, but when they found out he was a medical examiner, their curiosity was piqued. They just couldn’t wrap their minds around why a surgeon would ever want to work in a dark, cold basement instead of an operating room, but they didn’t understand. How could they?

Mr. Stevenson’s heart was a little enlarged, but that was no surprise. Heart disease was on his chart. It ran in his family. Castiel wondered if darkness ran in his. 

He threaded his surgical needle with suture thread and meticulously began stitching the pieces of flesh back together. He vaguely recalled his grandmother stitching together his torn shirt in much the same way, every stitch with care.  _ “We can make it whole again, Castiel. Don’t you worry, little angel.”  _ Except he wasn’t worried, not about a tear. Why worry about a rip when there were other things out there in the darkness? 

He tied off the last suture and ran a gloved finger across the perfect line. It was much easier to stitch on unmoving flesh. Another chill ran down his spine. It was the full moon pressing down on the world like a heavy hand. It was making him feel claustrophobic.

He moved Mr. Stevenson into a black bag, zipping him up, and sliding him away into the wall of drawers to keep him preserved until the funeral home could come and pick him up. Castiel’s job was done. He discarded his gloves and washed his hands, scrubbing his fingernails, between his fingers, and up to his elbows for exactly five minutes, a habit he picked up when he was still operating. Everything had to be meticulously sterile. 

He dried his hands, his arms, and reached into his pocket and pulled out a small orange bottle. He gave it a shake to listen to the familiar clatter of tablets against plastic. It gave him peace to know that the pain was a dry-swallow away from dissipating. He popped open the lid, child-locks be damned, and poured two into his hand. They looked small, insignificant against the heft of his palm. He flexed his hand, watching them hop as if eager to slide down his throat. 

_ “Take us inside of you, Castiel,”  _ they seemed to beg. So he did. It was the only intimacy he knew. 

There were different types of trauma. While in therapy Castiel learned that they all could be categorized into one of three main types. Acute trauma that results from a single incident, chronic trauma that is repeated and prolonged such as domestic violence or abuse, and complex trauma which is exposure to varied and multiple traumatic events, often of an invasive, interpersonal nature. More so, there was  _ capital T trauma _ and what she called  _ little t trauma _ . Capital T was the big stuff, the stuff that wrecks a person in an irreparable way. Little t was less so. It is possible for a traumatized person to get over little t trauma. 

In Castiel’s life, he’d seen his fair share of trauma. Probably more than a thirty-four year old man should’ve. He’d seen trauma happen to others, happen to himself, and he continued to see it on corpse after corpse. He saw trauma that others didn’t. The kind of trauma that couldn’t be seen from the outside. The kind of trauma that a person inflicts upon themselves. 

He remembered his first tumor resection from a lung. It was successful, beautiful, that tumor was a piece of art. He went out to deliver the good news to the man's twenty year old daughter. When he told her the news she immediately threw up into the trash can. She kneeled over it, Castiel standing next to her awkwardly, unsure of what to do. He offered her a Kleenex. 

She took it and wiped her mouth. She turned her head and looked at him with bloodshot eyes.  _ “I thought he would die. I thought he had to.”  _

_ “What do you mean?”  _ Castiel asked, puzzled. 

_ “He knew what the cigarettes were doing. He knew they’d kill him, but he didn’t care. If he throws his life away so easily how does he deserve another chance? Why would someone willingly do that to themselves?”  _

He thought about that a lot, but mostly he thought about how she didn’t understand. How could she understand? He did, though, looking down at the tumor with its tendrils wrapped around the lobe of his lung. The cancer was made of him. It was a part of him. Sometimes people have to cause pain for a release. People are naturally violent. They’re prone to cutting, kicking, biting, and those that are usually find an outlet. They become a football player, a boxer, a  _ surgeon _ . Not everyone can, though, so instead of inflicting that violence and pain on others, they inflict it on themselves. 

Sometimes pain was the only way to feel anything at all. Sometimes he’d rather be numb. 

His phone vibrated angrily on his instrument table with a  _ vrrrrrr vrrrr vrrrrr _ . He opened his eyes and pulled it into his hand. It felt forgein, like it didn’t belong to him. “Doctor Novak.” 

“Novak, we have a body.” 

“Great,” he said flatly. “Bring it in.” 

“Don't hang up!” 

“What is it?”

“There’s been a murder. We need you to come up here. There’s a new detective, and I think it’s the first time he’s seen a stiff. We could use you here.” 

“Fine.” 

“I’ll text you the address.” 

Castiel didn’t have many friends. Maybe  _ any  _ friends at all, but he had Inias. He was a forensic tech. He knew that Castiel didn’t like being in the field, so he tried to take care of everything on his own. When he was matched with a good detective, it wasn’t a problem. Castiel knew, though, that a rookie could disrupt evidence even by accident and leave him in a mess when he completes his autopsy. He was tired thinking about it already. 

He removed his lab coat, hung it, and walked to the bathroom to change out of his scrubs. He preferred to not be out in public in them. In fact, he preferred to not be out in public at  _ all _ if he could help it. 

He threw a gray scoop neck sweater over his white undershirt and pulled on his khaki pants. He grabbed his kit, keys, and cell phone and walked out into the frigid day. The air bit into his skin, and he hissed a bit, wishing desperately that he didn’t leave his coat at home. The plastic bottle in his pocket weighed heavier. He ignored it, shifting his weight to the right as he walked creating a sort of limp. 

His vehicle groaned angrily, whining about the cold. “Yes, I’m aware,” he commented to the machine impatiently. The engine sputtered to life after a few twists of his wrist with the key in the ignition. His head had begun to pound, and he added it to just another reason why he hated being out in the field. 

The scene wasn’t far, only a few blocks. In another life, Castiel would’ve walked and basked with the sun on his face happy to be alive despite the chill in the air. That was another life, though, and in the life he was in, Castiel drove. 

Yellow crime scene tape circled the scene, and Castiel hung his tape recorder on his wrist loosely with a strap. He shoved his hands in his pockets as he walked up, the recorder bouncing off his hip as he walked. 

“Cas!” Inias called to him, waving like a child. He was all wrist and elbow, moving his entire arm. Even his shoulders bobbed. “Damn, buddy, it’s good to see you in the fresh air. 

“Speak for yourself,” he replied sourly. “Is this the deceased?” He gestured with an elbow to a woman sprawled out on the ground. 

“Nah, this is my girlfriend,” Inias deadpanned. Castiel stared back at him like he didn’t understand, and Inias pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yeah, ‘s her.” 

“Perfect.”

Castiel crouched next to her. “Caucasian female, I’d place the age in her twenties,” he said into his tape recorder. Everytime the tape looped around there was a click.  _ Whir, whir, click.  _ Her dark eyes stared up at him, wide, gaping, accusatory. Her lips were parted slightly as if she was going to say something. Day-old red lipstick stained the fullness of her lips. 

He squinted at the pinpricks along her arms accompanied with black and blue skin. She was bruised. The blood had settled beneath translucent skin. “Drug use is apparent,” he commented into the recorder.  _ Click!  _

“You must be the M.E.” 

The voice was rough and it sent an immediate chill down Castiel’s spine. His eyes flicked up to catch a pair of moss green eyes glinting in the sunlight. He was young, likely not even thirty years old. His badge hung around his neck on a chain, swinging slightly as he shifted his weight. A plaid button up was tucked under a brown leather coat. 

“Yes.” Castiel said, realizing that the man was staring at him like he was a fucking idiot. 

“Awesome.” The corner of his mouth tugged into a smirk that seemed almost smug, and there was a tug deep within Castiel’s belly as a response. Who did this kid think he was? “I’m Detective Winchester.”

“Pleasure.” 

The detective blinked a few times before scratching the back of his head. “I uh...What do you make of her?” 

Castiel cleared his throat, happy to turn back to his work. He peeled his eyes off of Winchester and planted them firmly back to the deceased. “The track marks here and here,” he said, gesturing loosely to the pin pricks on the inside of her arm. “Lead me to believe she is an addict.” 

“Think it’s an overdose?” 

“Hard to tell without a toxicology report,” Castiel began. “But, see this?” He gestured to her mouth. “No vomit. That tells me that it’s unlikely that it was a true overdose. Normally they choke on their own vomit. I’d have to look inside of her throat…” He turned to look back at the detective when his words caught in his throat. He had crouched down at some point while Castiel was talking and was now a breath away from him. 

“What about this?” He asked, pointing to the victims throat. 

“Bruising,” Castiel explained with a quick nod. “I noticed it as well. It looks like she’s been choked.” 

“Could that’ve killed her?” 

“I will look into the state of her windpipe, but from here it doesn’t look like there was enough force.” 

Winchester nodded a few times, his eyebrows furrowing together in puzzlement. From that close, Castiel could see freckles sprinkled across his nose and cheekbones. It gave him a boyish look, young and wide eyed, but the honey brown hairs poking through the skin on his jaw aged him a bit more. Castiel had to resist the urge to reach out and feel the roughness of new hair breaking through. 

He cleared his throat, forcing his eyes away from the detective, and back to the victim. “I will collect some samples and examine her back in the lab.” 

The detective put a hand on Castiel’s shoulder, causing him to recoil, his head whipping back to look at the man. His green eyes were fixed, intense. “Will you call me with what you figure out? I’ve got a nasty gut feeling that this is more than it looks like.” 

His mouth was dry, and he was sure his jaw was hanging open. The guy was green, a rookie, so what did he know? Castiel’s eyes flickered back to the body and his own gut twisted. He didn’t know how, or why, but he believed the green eyed detective. He believed him down to his bones. “Alright.” 

“Thank you,” Winchester breathed, like he was relieved. 

“It’s my job,” Castiel said blankly, his fingers tapping his pocket anxiously. He didn’t like it… talking to people, socializing, being watched. He could feel the weight of the man's gaze and it felt suffocating. He turned to Inias. “Bring the body to me, I… I will meet you there.” 

He turned on his heels and shuffled away rapidly, trying to catch his breath as the sky seemed to come down on him with a crushing weight. He pulled on his collar, trying to get it away from his neck, because it felt like a tight hold, like fingers pressing on his windpipe. The pain was still there, it was  _ always  _ there. It was a phantom limb, gone but still aching. 

He hadn’t waited for Inias to respond, or to pass over what he had collected. His recorder was still whirring in his hand, recording every passing second. He clicked it off as soon as his ass fell into the driver's seat of his vehicle. He gripped the wheel with both hands and clamped his eyes shut. He tried to steady his breathing, like he’d learned in therapy, but thinking about therapy made him even more anxious. Why did Inias call him? He could’ve handled it on his own! 

He dug deep into his pocket, pulling out the familiar plastic bottle. He cracked open the top, dumping the tiny tablets onto his palm. He wasted no time before swallowing them, his lips to his palm. It hurt rolling down his dry throat, but he avoided the urge to gag. He needed it. He closed his eyes again, pressing the back of his head to the headrest, and he fell into the darkness. 

* * *

* * *

He was whistling,  _ whistling.  _ He wasn’t sure he’d ever whistled in his life, but yet there he was. It was probably inappropriate, to have some feigned happiness around a woman who had overdosed. Well, he couldn’t say for certain that it was an overdose, not until his lab got back. 

Like he suspected, she didn’t die of strangulation, but there was a struggle. She was attacked and fought her attacker. He got samples of skin under her fingernails. Skin and blood. They still didn’t have any identification for her, but the police were supposed to be running her finger prints and dental records. It was looking more and more like a murder. It was a puzzle, and Castiel loved puzzles. They were complicated, but yet they all fit together in the end in a pretty picture. Not much in life ended up that way, so Castiel craved the moments when it did. He hoped she would make a perfect picture. The dead deserved justice, sometimes it was all that they got from a world that only dished out pain. 

He thought back to the rookie detective as he sewed up the Y cut across her chest and down her stomach. He was handsome, young, and serious. Castiel didn’t allow himself to look, let alone date, but he couldn’t seem to pluck the man from his mind. He was a planted seed, and the ideas were already blooming and growing out of control. 

He wasn’t sure exactly when he stopped whistling, but the new silence around the morgue was deafening. It was broken only by one stray  _ drip drip drip.  _ Did he leave the faucet on? He turned quickly to check, the world tilting on its axis a bit as he stumbled to the sink. 

Sure enough, a droplet was pooling and falling rapidly from the faucet into the sink with an earth shattering splash. He let out a sigh of relief, as he placed his hand under the faucet, almost as if to check the temperature, to be sure that it was really there. Wetness pooled at his fingers as another drop fell from the faucet onto his skin, and he pulled back his hand to examine his fingers. 

They were red. 

Blood soaked his fingertips, a single droplet at first, but it continued to spread. Had he cut himself? He wiped away the blood on his scrub top, but it just kept coming, spurting and oozing out. He blindly reached for a towel and wrapped it around his fingers to stop the bleeding. He pressed it against the wound, his head spinning already from the blood loss. 

The light blue surgical towel was already turning wet and crimson from the blood soaking through, pooling, growing, and a horrible feeling came to his stomach. He was going to die. 

He didn’t want to die, but more than that he didn’t want to be a body on someone’s table. He didn’t want to be exposed, cut open, and emptied out like a bag of groceries. He didn’t want his blood to settle and congeal. He didn’t want a tag on his toe, his greying skin zipped within a black bag. He couldn’t be reduced to just parts. 

His heart was racing, and he knew that it was a mistake. He was a doctor for god sakes, and he knew that rapid heartbeat would make him bleed out faster, but he couldn’t stop the panic that was spiraling within him. 

The pain pulsed through him, his fingers throbbing with the beat of his heart. “Fuck,” he hissed under his breath as he quickly unwrapped his fingers. He needed to find the source of the bleed and stitch it up or he would surely bleed out and die alone next to a murder victim. He unwrapped the towel and placed his hand immediately under the faucet to run water over it. He turned on the flow and clear water ran over his skin. There was no blood to be found. 

He pulled his hand away, examining it in its entirety. Then his opposite hand. There was no cut. There was no blood at all. He picked up the surgical towel to find it completely dry. There was never any blood. He stared at it, his fingers curling around the fabric. 

He was losing his fucking mind. 

Castiel let out a heavy sigh and turned off the faucet, wiping a bead of sweat off his brow with the surgical towel. He probably needed a day off — maybe a week. He turned back to finish his examination of the murder victim. He still had a mountain of paperwork to do and samples to process. His eyes settled on the metal examination table. The silver top gleamed in the buzzing fluorescent lights. He touched his temple and closed his eyes.  _ In, out, in out. Keep it together, Castiel.  _ But when he opened his eyes the picture in front of him was still the same. 

The table was completely empty and cleared off. 

The body was gone. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by [Deancebra](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24229972) and Beta'd by @meowmeowsamurai

It was _impossible._ She was just there, just like his fingers were just bleeding. He was losing it, and, fuck, that was an understatement. He ran the short distance to the drawers that held the cadavers awaiting pick up, and he began rapidly pulling open the drawers. He yanked the zippers down, checking the toe tags for Jane Doe’s information. The heavy sliding sound of the metal drawer scraping against its rails, and the _zip_ of the zipper exposing the greying skin of the human body against the sharp fluorescent light. _No, no, no, no._

He stared at the wall of open drawers, open bags, yellow tags hanging off of stiff toes. She was nowhere to be found. 

He grabbed his tape recorder from the table and clicked the playback button. He only heard the buzz of empty air on the tape. It was completely blank, like he’d never spoken into it at all. He stared at it blankly, the tape flipping over on itself as it played out nothing. Not his voice, or the detective’s. There was nothing. He picked up his clipboard to see the paperwork he’d begun filling out for her autopsy. The page was gone, but at the top of the clipboard right at the edge, there was a soft tear line from where some of the pages had been pulled out of the clipboard with obvious haste. He ran his finger along the edge and swallowed hard. 

It was impossible, but yet. _But yet._

He pulled his cellphone out of his pocket and dialed Inias’ phone number, needing some reassurance. He was hoping his friend could shine some light on the situation. There were two rings before his phone beeped back at him angrily. “The number you have dialed has been disconnected…” He pulled his phone from his face and stared down at Inias’ name in his contact. He’d dialed it correctly. There had to be some kind of mistake. He rapidly typed out a text and hit send. It bounced back almost immediately. _Undeliverable._ His mouth went dry. 

What the fuck was going on?

He grabbed his wallet and keys and ran upstairs to speak to Naomi, his boss, without bothering to close up any of the drawers. He pushed open the door to her office without knocking, panting from running up the stairs. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple. 

“Castiel,” she said, looking up at him from whatever paperwork she was filling out. She looked concerned, her dark eyebrows coming together. She flattened her brunette hair on one side that seemed to be coming loose from her bun. “Can I help you with something?” 

“There’s been a mistake,” he wheezed. “The Jane Doe victim we brought in earlier today is… she’s missing.” 

“Missing?” Naomi stood slowly, her eyes soft with worry. “Castiel, there haven’t been any new arrivals today.” 

“What?” _No._ “Yes there has. I went to the scene. I suspected foul play…” 

“Maybe you should sit down, Castiel. You don’t look well.” She reached out a hand to him, and he batted it away. 

“I’m well,” he said between gritted teeth. “I was there.” 

“Do you have paperwork to show that?” 

“No— that’s what I’m trying to tell you. It’s missing! All of it.” 

“Castiel,” Naomi said with a gentle voice. “Perhaps we have been pushing you too hard. Let me get you something to drink, just sit down, please.” 

He pinched the bridge of his nose, but followed her instructions. He watched her walk to her coffee maker and press the hot water button into a mug. She combined it with a small bag, that he could only presume was a tea blend. She steeped it in the hot water for a moment before handing it to him. “Here, it’ll help.” She sat on the edge of her desk, flattening out her grey slacks. 

He glanced down at the mug before taking a sip. It was hot and burned his tongue. He barely noticed. “You have to believe me.” 

“I’ve done a disservice to you, Castiel.” Naomi touched his hand, urging him to take another sip. He did. “I no longer believe you’re ready for this. I should’ve insisted you take a longer break after the incident.” 

“I don’t need a break,” he said sharply, but he couldn’t deny that the tea was helping. His heart rate was slowing. “I just need…” 

“That isn’t a request. Take some time.” She stood up and opened her office door for him. “I don’t want to see you back in this office for at least a week. Consider it an early vacation and finish the tea.” She nodded for him to stand, and he found himself complying. 

He took another drink of the tea, the hot liquid burning down his throat as he walked out of the office. The door clicked shut behind him. He walked through the lobby and out the door into the night. The cold air stung his face. It got dark so early that his sense of time felt warped, twisted. 

Castiel didn’t know what to do. His gut twisted angrily, as if someone reached down his throat and grabbed his insides in a fist and yanked. He doubled over, suddenly afraid that he was going to vomit all over the sidewalk. The ceramic mug fell from his grip onto the concrete, shattering into broken pieces at his feet. “Shit,” he grunted, wiping a bead of sweat off his forehead. He stumbled forward and pressed his palm against the bark of a nearby tree to steady himself, to get his breath back. 

He wasn’t crazy. He couldn’t be. He could still remember slicing into her flesh, cradling her heart in his hands, sewing up her chest. She was _real._ Where was Inias? What happened in that blink of a second that he spent at the sink? He just needed facts, proof, someone else who saw her… someone…

There was a flash of green in his mind. A set of green eyes drastically contrasted against freckled cheeks. The detective! Of course! He doubled over and retched, emptying his stomach. Once he felt settled enough he jogged to his car and headed directly to the police station. He had to talk to the detective. 

Castiel had to know if he remembered. 

He knew what he must’ve looked like-- perhaps a drunk or a fool, but nonetheless he pushed into the bustling station, scanning for _him._ “Excuse me,” he said, touching the shoulder of an officer. The man turned begrudgingly, and Castiel quickly realized what he was doing. He stumbled into a police station like a mad man. He was grabbing officers. Maybe Naomi was right. Maybe he did need a break. 

The officer’s eyes were narrowed on him and flickered between Cas’ hand on his shoulder and Cas’ face. “Can I help you with something?” 

“Detective Winchester,” he barely croaked. “I need to speak with him.” 

“Sure,” the officer shrugged and pointed toward the coffee machine in the break area where Detective Winchester was pouring himself a cup. 

He turned just as Castiel began to walk towards him. Their eyes locked, and he could’ve sworn that the rest of the world melted away. The detective’s pace picked up and when he reached Castiel he curled his fingers around Cas’ arm. “Come with me,” he whispered, his voice low and rough. Winchester didn’t look surprised to see him, and it made his stomach churn again. There was something very wrong going on. 

His suspicions were confirmed even more when the detective yanked him into a supply closet. “What are you doing here?” He demanded. 

“I need to talk to you,” Castiel insisted, pulling his arm out of the man’s tight grasp. “There’s something going on.”

“What do you mean?”

He was standing so close to the detective that he was breathing in his cologne. It was intoxicating. “Jane Doe is missing.” 

He sounded fucking ridiculous. He sounded insane. He knew that, of course he did, but it didn’t change a damn thing. 

“Cas what are you saying?”

“I’m saying… wait. Cas?” Castiel’s cheeks were heating up. “How do you know my name? I never told you…” 

“The crime scene tech told me after you left,” Winchester said almost bashfully. He reached behind him and scratched the back of his neck. His cheeks were growing pinker the longer that Castiel looked at him. 

Castiel realized, then, that he didn’t know the detective’s first name either. 

“It’s Dean, by the way,” he said as if he was reading Castiel’s mind. 

“Dean,” Castiel said, trying out his name on his lips. It sounded good, like he was always supposed to say it. “We worked on the case together, you remember?” 

“I do.” 

“This is going to sound crazy, I know it will.” He looked at Dean intently. “But I was doing her autopsy, and when I turned around she was gone. The tapes that held my notes on the autopsy were erased. I don’t know what happened…” 

Dean looked pale. It was like all of the color drained out of his face, the pulse in his throat seemed to leap under his skin. 

“What is it?” 

“I thought I was going fucking insane,” Dean said, his voice low and rough. His green eyes were wide and focused on him. “I brought my theories about her to my boss, and she told me to shut it down. No one will admit it even happened. They said…”

“That you’re overworked? Tired?”

“Fuckin’ nuts. Yeah, pretty much.”

“But we saw her,” Castiel insisted. 

“I know,” Dean agreed quietly. “Somethings going on.”

“What time do you get off?”

“Now.” He wasn’t wasting any time. “Come to my place? Maybe we can make heads or tails of what’s happening.”

Castiel’s throat went dry. What the fuck was he getting himself into? “Alright.”

Dean lived in a cramped studio apartment in Brooklyn. It smelled musty and old. He suspected if Dean and he spread out their arms and touched fingers they would hit the opposite walls. He had a full size bed tucked in one corner, a single chair pushed under a small desk, and an armchair. The paint on the walls were stained yellow from a previous tenant who smoked, and the wood floors were scuffed. “It’s nice,” Castiel said stiffly. How did he find himself here? He didn’t go to people’s apartments, no matter how green their eyes were. 

Dean turned toward him with a cheeky grin. “It ain’t much, but it’s mine. Beats livin’ in my car.”

“I suppose it does.” 

“Have a seat. Can I get you something to drink? I’ve got… shit,” he said from the kitchen. “Water.” He laughed awkwardly. “I can probably scrounge up some coffee.”

“Coffee would be nice, if you can.”

Dean shuffled around in the kitchen, and Castiel could hear him digging in the cabinets, then running water. 

He lowered himself into the seat at the desk, because the plush surfaces felt a little too intimate. He took note of Dean’s hurried scrawl in green pen on the case reports on his desk. His shopping list was scribbled on the outside of a Manila envelope, his to-do list written on the back of a gas station receipt with question marks at the end of every item. _Groceries? Finish laundry?_ Certainly he knew if his laundry needed to be done and based on the overflowing basket in the corner, Castiel surmised that the to-do list was on going.

The familiar sputtering sound of a cheap coffee machine coming to life hit Castiel like a Mack truck awakening his senses, and he sat up a little straighter.

“How do you like your coffee?”

“Black is fine.” 

Dean came out of the kitchen holding a Scooby Doo mug that said _Ruh Ro!_ It was chipped at the rim, but Castiel didn’t care. He took the mug eagerly and pressed it to his lips, taking a sip. It was weak, but appreciated nonetheless. 

“So,” Dean began, “tell me everything.” 

His eyes flickered up and met Dean’s through the steam. Lumpy’s mangled body flashed through his mind, but he shook it away quickly. That wasn’t what Dean meant, and he knew it. 

“I was performing her autopsy and I got… distracted.” 

“By what?” Dean leaned against the wall with his arms folded tightly across his chest. The fabric of his black button up was pulled tightly across his biceps. 

“I cut myself,” he found himself saying, even though he hadn’t intended to share that detail. “And I was trying to clean the wound.” 

Dean was studying him, but he nodded knowingly. He had no reason not to believe Castiel, afterall. “Then what happened?”

“When I got the bleeding under control, I turned back to finish the autopsy, and she was just _gone.”_ Castiel wrung his fingers, rubbing his hands together. He felt that familiar itch. He was almost too clear. It felt like the lights in the apartment were all focused on him, and he could hear the pounding of his heart like a mallet on his skull. “The audio recording from the scene was gone, the tape was blank, and her input papers were ripped out.” 

“Ripped out? Like someone came in and removed all of her information?” Dean leaned in, suddenly much more interested. “How is that possible? Did you leave the room?” 

“No, I was just at the sink.” 

“Could someone have come in while you were fixin’ your wound without you noticing?” 

“No.” Could they have? Castiel wasn’t sure. He was out of it. He was bleeding, he could’ve _sworn_ that he was, but yet… “I don’t… I don’t think so.” 

Dean pressed his lips together. The story was flimsy at best, and Castiel knew that. It was all he had. What was he supposed to do with that?

“You don’t believe me.” 

“It’s pretty unbelievable,” Dean admitted softly. His eyes flickered up and met Castiel’s. “But I believe you.” 

He felt his shoulders relax and he let out a breath of relief that he didn’t realize he was holding. Dean believed him. He didn’t think Cas was a nut job, at least not yet. That meant something to him. “What about you?”

“I uh… when I tried to bring it up I was shot down immediately. Said there was no case. No girl. Feels a lot like gaslighting to me.” 

His mouth immediately went dry. He’d been this way his entire life. He was stifled, his flame put out when he was too young to know any better. He never had a chance to be normal. Can you gaslight someone who was already that way at their core? The difference between him and Dean was that Dean probably _wasn’t_ actually crazy. The thought was almost paralyzing. 

“Hey, you good?” Dean was crouched in front of him, looking at his eyes. Castiel could feel Dean’s fingers pressed against his kneecaps. It was grounding. It pulled him back in. “You don’t look so good man, kinda pale.”

“I’m always pale. I work in a morgue.” 

Dean laughed. It wasn’t supposed to be a joke. It was just the truth. “Okay, buddy, touche.” 

“You think they’re trying to get us to stop looking into the case?” 

“Maybe.” 

A pit grew in Castiel’s stomach as he remembered dialing Inias’ number only to get a disconnected message. “My friend, the crime scene tech Inias… I haven’t been able to get a hold of him. Something’s going on, Dean.” His voice came out soft, pained, it sounded like a plea. 

“Fuck it,” Dean said, standing back up. Castiel felt empty the moment Dean’s fingers left him. “Let’s go to his place and check up on him. He was there. He’s gotta remember something helpful.” 

Castiel opened his mouth to protest, but he closed it almost immediately and just nodded. He shouldn’t worry about the fact that he hadn’t been over to visit Inias in too long. He was worried, and that trumped any kind of awkwardness that he could possibly feel. He stood up and flattened his sweater. 

“That all you got? It’s cold out there, Cas.” 

He shrugged. “It doesn’t bother me much.” 

“Nah, we ain’t doin’ that.” Dean shrugged out of his coat and handed it to Castiel. “I’ve got another.” 

The leather felt strange in Cas’ fingers: soft, worn. It was still warm from Dean’s skin. He wrapped himself up in it without a second thought. It smelled like Dean. He zipped himself up inside of the coat and let the fabric pull himself in and hold him closely. When Dean walked back into the room he paused, zipping up his hunter green canvas jacket. A small smile seemed to tug at the corner of Dean’s mouth. “Like the coat?”

“Huh?” Castiel felt heat creep up his cheekbones and a smile melt off his own lips. “Yes, it’s quite warm. Thank you.” 

“Any time,” Dean said with a smirk. “Alright, let’s hit the road.” 

_Hit the road_ in New York was usually code for _walk_ or public transportation, but Castiel had a car. He felt deeply unsettled as Dean buckled into the passenger seat, his eyes on Castiel as his fingers had been pressed against Castiel’s knees. He was self conscious, and he almost wanted to ask Dean to drive. That wasn’t logical, though, so Castiel gritted his teeth and put his old, shitty car into drive. 

It took a good forty-five minutes of city traffic to get to Inias’ apartment, that was really less than twenty minutes away. The subway would’ve been faster. He circled around the block a few times to find a parking spot, finally snagging one when someone left right in front of the building. “Awesome,” Dean mused with a wide grin. It was like the detective forgot that they were on a case, a _mission_. Castiel shot him a look before getting out of the car. “How do you know this guy anyway?” 

“We were friends in college.” He pushed into the apartment building. “And I haven’t been able to get rid of him since then.” 

“Good guy, then.” Dean nodded knowingly and they began to climb the metal stairs to Inias flat. The building was old and didn’t have an elevator. It used to, but it wasn’t functional and was now taped off with yellow caution tape. Inias thought it gave the building character. It was just one of another thousand things that Castiel added to the list of the things that concerned him. 

“I suppose you could say that.” Inais _was_ a good guy. He was an excellent guy, a superb friend. Castiel just couldn’t grasp why a guy like Inias would attach onto Castiel like he did. They reached his door in no time. He knocked with some mild reservation. Something inside of him hesitated. An invisible hand pulled his own back and held it tight. 

“I’m sure he’s good, Cas.” Dean said, noting his hesitation. The pressure of his thumb and palm pressed down on Cas’ shoulder encouragingly. “He probably just forgot to pay his phone bill.” 

“I hope you’re right.” 

He curled his hand into a fist and hit the door once, twice. There was silence behind the door. “Maybe he isn’t home,” Dean offered, but his voice held a hint of concern. 

“Let’s see,” Cas said, standing on his toes to pull the spare key off the top of the door frame. 

Dean snorted and slapped Cas’ shoulder approvingly. 

The key clicked into the lock without difficulty, and he easily turned it, the cogs clicking together seamlessly. It was all too easy. Maybe Inias would just be on the couch passed out from a night out on the town with his phone bill unopened on his coffee table. He wasn’t the most responsible, so it wasn’t exactly out of the realm of possibility, but as the door swung open and Castiel took in the scene in front of him, his stomach bottomed out and fell through the floor. 

The apartment was completely empty. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by [Deancebra](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24229972) and Beta'd by @meowmeowsamurai

It looked like someone had left in a hurry. The carpet hadn’t been cleaned, and was still the bright tan color of a freshly shampooed carpet under the places Inias’ furniture used to be. Castiel felt frozen in the doorway, his hand still on the doorknob. _What the fuck is going on?_

“Hello?” Dean called, stepping through the threshold. 

“Dean, wait,” Castiel said, reaching a hand out for him. Could it be a crime scene they were walking into? Inias seemed to be _missing_ for God sakes. Maybe the two men should tread a little more lightly as they stomped through the abandoned apartment. 

“Inias?” Dean poked around the apartment, shining his phone flashlight in the empty rooms. “When was the last time you were here, Cas?”

He opened his mouth to answer, but it felt like the words were plucked from his tongue. When was the last time? It felt like a second ago-- a day, a week? Hell, he wasn’t sure of much anymore. “Wasn’t that long,” he decided. Couldn’t be. He wasn’t _that_ out of it, right? 

“Well no one is here now.” 

“I just talked to him.” Castiel’s voice broke, and he shoved his hand into his pocket, fingering the plastic bottle. 

“Hey,” Dean said softly as he walked to him. He placed a hand on Castiel’s elbow. “We’re gonna figure this out, man. 

“I want to believe you.” _I want a lot of things._

“Then do it.” Dean grinned at him, the skin around his eyes crinkling in a way that was incredibly charming. “Come on. Take a look around. You’re his friend, so I bet you’d notice if something was off in here.” 

“Other than all of his belongings being gone?” 

“Yeah.” Dean scratched the back of his head with an awkward, half smile. “Other than that.” 

He would humor Dean because he wasn't sure what else to do. He pulled out his cellphone and clicked on his flashlight. The walls were scuffed from furniture scraping against the paint. The light scanned the floor as he looked for anything weird. 

Other than a frayed cable wire - he had mice - he and Dean didn’t find anything noteworthy. Inias couldn’t have left _that_ quickly because the place was cleaned out. The carpet wasn’t vaccumed and it was pretty fucking obvious that Inias had never cleaned the bathtub in the entire time he’d lived in the apartment. If something had happened there Castiel would’ve seen it, right? He had to. He worked in forensics for fuck sakes! 

It wasn’t until he got to the bedroom that something twisted inside of him. It was a nervous feeling, a nauseous swirling inside of his stomach. He opened the closed door slowly, not sure what he was expecting to find exactly. Dean was still shuffling through the kitchen, looking in the cabinets and making a real ruckus. 

The closet doors were pulled closed, which felt weird, because Inias was messy. He’d always had the doors wide open. Castiel didn’t even realize they could close. His fingers twitched for the folding doors of the closet. He ran his tongue along his bottom lip, wetting his chapped skin. He slid his phone back in his pocket. 

His hands shook as his fingers curled around the knobs on the closet doors. He pulled them open slowly and it was like pulling apart an old accordion. It creaked angrily, groaning at the pressure. It was sort of the sound old bones made when he cranked their chests apart.

Unlike the rest of the apartment, clothing still hung in the closet. Thick fabric obstructed his view of the back wall. _Why wouldn’t he take his clothes? Unless it wasn’t Inias who packed the place up…_ Castiel shook off the thought and reached forward into the closet to move the clothing out of the way, but instead of Inias’ scratchy wool coat scraping against his fingers, he felt something else. It was smooth, almost an ultra soft leather. He touched it again, slower with focus. It was almost fleshy in consistency, almost warm. It was a little too familiar. He pinched at a thread, tugging slightly and the skin on his arms perked up in goosebumps. His mouth went dry as he remembered where he recognized the feeling. He pulled harder at the strand, releasing it from the fabric. A warm, thick liquid pooled where the thread was before. 

He was all too familiar with blood. It started the first time he scraped his knee as a child the blood percelating on his skin, the red stark against his pale skin, and progressed when he sliced open Lumpy’s stomach on his porch and felt the warm heat run between his fingers, and continued still every time he was elbow deep in a chest cavity as it pooled and congealed around his latex covered fingers. His hand hovered there, outstretched, and frozen. He couldn’t move as the hot blood rolled across his hand and down his arm. He took his spare hand, trembling, and reached into his pocket to pull out his phone. He felt the coat - the skin - twitch under his touch and turn, long bony fingers wrapping around his wrist and grabbing it tightly. He gasped out in pain, but he couldn’t call for Dean. He couldn’t speak. All he could do was fumble with the buttons on his phone for the light. 

There was a hot wet breath on his skin, like a tongue pressed against the back of his neck. He could almost feel the saliva accumulate and roll down his neck, through the collar of his shirt, and between his shoulder blades. He gagged as his light finally clicked on. It took a moment for his hand to stop shaking and his light to steady and stop swaying back and forth.

Castiel would’ve thought that his eyes were betraying him if they weren’t burning from being open so wide, from the dryness of the autumn air in the empty apartment. As the light stopped shaking, he turned it up to the coat he’d been touching to find a naked upper body that looked too familiar to him. Scrawny arms with translucent skin pulled tight against sharp jutting shoulders that were bluing along the lines of his bones. 

The knobs of his spine rolled as his head, his hair falling into his hollow, empty eyes as he stared at Castiel. He opened his mouth, his teeth bloody and rotting. “Castiel,” Inias hissed from his rotting, black maw. His arm reached up for Castiel, blackened fingers gripping. The skin pulled tighter at his shoulder exposing the blue plastic of a hanger shoved in a bleeding hole at the base of his neck. _“Castiel.”_

Castiel backed up, stumbling away from reaching fingers, his phone clattering to the floor. It fell to the hardwood of the closet with a deafening _crack._

“Cas? Hey I think I found something.” 

He hadn’t felt himself fall to his knees, but as Dean’s light settled on him, his hands were wrapped around himself, covering his head as he cowered at the floor of the closet. 

“Are you good?” Dean asked in a voice of heavy concern. He crouched next to Cas and pressed a hand on his shoulder. 

“I…” He looked up into the closet. Even in the low light of Dean’s flash light glowing at his knees he could see that it was only coats hanging in the closet. There was no blood on his hands, no corpse hanging in the closet, and his friend was nowhere to be seen. “Yes, I’m fine.” 

Dean’s eyebrows came together, and he looked at Castiel as if he wasn’t too convinced, but he offered a hand nonetheless. Cas took his hand and squeezed it as Dean helped him stand on shaking knees. “Come with me. I think I found something.” Cas glanced back at the closet, feeling a deep unease at the quiet normality of the inside of the closet. It was almost like a weight in the room, heavy and smothering. 

He turned back to Dean and followed him back into the kitchen. “What did you find?” 

“I think there’s something stuck in the sink. I was hopin’ you could shine the light while I try to take it apart.” 

“Oh, uh, alright.” He clasped his hands together, wringing them and trying to get them to stop trembling. Dean handed Cas his phone and he held it with two hands, pointing it under the sink as Dean crouched and started to unscrew the pipe from its place. “How did you know to look in the sink?”

“I’m a detective, Cas. It’s kinda my job.” He let out a grunt as he twisted the pipe again. 

_Right._ “Of course.” 

Dean stuck out his tongue as he tried to focus. He must’ve had strong hands to try to manipulate the pipe without any tools, and the thought sent a chill up Castiel’s spine-- which felt honestly really fucked up after the day he’d had. It wasn’t the place _or_ the time to be thinking about the detective in that way. It was highly likely that he was losing his fucking mind, or something much worse. 

“Fuck, it’s really stuck.” 

“Is there something I can do?” Castiel asked, not that he knew anything about tools or anything of the sort. He was more inclined to move than do any kind of plumbing work himself. 

“Nah, I think I’ve almost got it.” 

His face was reddening, a vein popping out in his neck as he strained. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple, and he let out a huff of breath as the pipe released. He wiped his sweat with the back of his hand. “Got it,” Dean glanced back at him with a proud grin. 

He wanted to offer a smile back, but the sick feeling he had previously had returned. His gut twisted, and he pressed his lips closed to keep himself from getting sick. 

“Let’s see what's hiding in here.” Dean reached his hand up under the sink and grabbed. He made a face. 

“What is it?” Castiel leaned forward to get a better look. 

“I don’t… fuck what is this?” Dean pulled his hand back, his fingers twisted in wet, black matted hair. 

No. The hair wasn’t black, it just _looked_ black from the sticky liquid twisted in it. 

“What the fuck?” He looked at his hand, turning it over exposing a pink and grey piece of flesh. The hair was connected to one end, the other covered in wiggling white maggots that ate away at the bloody piece of scalp. Dean recoiled at the sight, shaking his hand violently to get the hair untangled from his fingers. 

Castiel wanted to help, to reach out to Dean, but as the detective screamed out in horror all Castiel could do was turn around, rest his hands on his knees and retch onto the kitchen floor.

* * *

* * *

Castiel was inclined to call the police, well at least until Dean pointed out that he _was_ the police. Something was really wrong. After there was nothing left inside of him to throw up, and Dean bagged the scalp to take back to the precinct to test, they rushed out of the apartment and back into the night. 

They ended up back at Dean’s place. Considering the circumstances, neither of them really wanted to be alone. Dean brewed a big pot of coffee, and Cas went into the bathroom to splash his face. He took the water in his cupped hands and splashed his face a few times. 

He kept looking at the ripped piece of scalp connected to Dean’s fingers hoping he could blink it away like everything else, but it just wouldn’t disappear. It was real. He didn’t know what was worse-- the vivid nightmare or reality. 

The man who stared back at him in the mirror was a far more tired version of himself. Bloodshot eyes, messy hair, and black circles under his eyes. He feared that sleep would tug at him and pull him deeper into the fear that was grappling him. He gripped the sides of the sink with white knuckles. He tried to recapture his breath, but he couldn’t. 

His eyes focused and unfocused, the edges of his vision blurring. He reached into his pocket haphazardly and pulled out his plastic bottle with trembling hands. He didn’t _want_ to do it, but he needed to focus. He needed to escape. 

He shook out two little pills and swallowed them, sticking his mouth under the sink and taking in water. It went warm down his throat, making him sick to his stomach. He hadn’t slept, and he was afraid to. 

A few quick raps came to the door. “You good in there, man?”

He wasn’t. 

“Yeah.” It came out shaky and unsure. 

“Let me in.” 

“It’s unlocked.” Castiel lowered himself to the floor and pressed his back against the wall. 

Dean stepped in, his eyes tracking down to Cas. “Scoot.” 

He moved to allow Dean to sit next to him in the cramped space. Their thighs brushed sending a chill up Cas’ spine. “I know things are bad,” Dean began. “But we are gonna figure it out. I was thinkin’ maybe we should go to the crime scene. See if there’s anything we missed.” 

Cas just nodded, because he feared his voice would betray him. 

“For the record, I’m glad you’re here. I thought I was going crazy.” 

“I know the feeling.” Cas’ voice was barely a pained whisper. “Who can you trust if you can’t even trust your own mind?” 

“We can trust each other.” 

“You don’t even know me, Dean.” 

“I know enough.” He sounded confident. Maybe he knew something that Castiel didn’t. “I’ve got an eye for people.” 

“You do? What do you see when you look at me?” 

“I see,” Dean’s voice trailed off for a moment. It was as if he was looking through the wall out into space. “I see a guy that’s been hurt. Not sure by what yet. Maybe it’s the system, somebody you trusted, or yourself. You don’t have it in you to lean on somebody, but that doesn’t mean I won’t be that shoulder. I learned a lot in my life, and the biggest is that you have to have somebody that you can lean on. If not, then what’s the fucking point of it all?”

Then Dean looked at him. He looked at Castiel like he was the only other person in the world, and damn it he was too beautiful for words. Even with the purple, exhausted half moons under his eyes that seemed to weigh him down. Even after everything they’d seen and the pain they were bound to endure, Dean still managed to smile and brush Castiel’s knee with the softest touch of gun-calloused fingers. 

“We’ve just gotta be careful, Cas. Seems like it’s just me and you… I don’t think the captain wants me poking around in this. Can’t take too many risks.” Dean’s hand was resting completely on Cas’ knee now, making something deep within him throb and ache. 

In the growing haze from the pills dancing around his pocket Cas felt an overwhelming urge to take Dean by his collar and kiss him. The day still felt so close, like the hot breath against his neck, but somehow he knew that Dean could quiet his demons. His eyes flickered to Dean’s hand on his knee. He already felt so anchored just by the simple touch. 

Dean started to stand up, probably due to Cas’ complete lack of response. He reached out and put his hand over Dean’s on his knee and squeezed it gently. 

His head was starting in on the familiar swimming feeling, floating on top of water. He didn’t know what was happening. He didn’t know where his friend was, or what happened to the girl’s body or why he was seeing nightmares come to life. All he knew was that he wanted it all to stop for just a moment. For the first time in his life, he didn’t want to be alone. “Stay,” Cas said weekly.

Dean settled back down and reached out, brushing his cheekbone with his thumb. “I’m not going anywhere, Sweetheart.” 

Castiel’s stomach leaped when Dean leaned in to kiss him. It was like falling over the edge on a rollercoaster. His heart was racing, climbing up and up until Dean’s lips brushed his in a quiet moment, a breath before everything faded to darkness. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by [Deancebra](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24229972) and Beta'd by @meowmeowsamurai

The sun streamed in through the window right into Cas’ eyes. He pulled himself out of sleep, cotton-mouthed like he was coming out of a haze. He rubbed his eyes and sat up, the blanket falling and exposing his bare chest. He squinted around the room trying to orient himself. He hadn’t remembered falling asleep. His head was pounding, and he rubbed his temple. 

The room came into focus slowly at first and then all at once. There was a gurgle from the coffee maker sputtering to life. He was in Dean’s apartment, and he was _naked._ The last thing he remembered was sitting on the floor of the bathroom talking and then. _And then._ Lips on his lips. A soft brushing sensation and a tingle deep within his gut. Dean had kissed him. Then what? He had no fucking idea. 

The door to the apartment clicked open, and Cas pulled his blanket back up to his chest. Dean was wearing a cap and a sweatshirt. He was holding a bag of bagels from the place that Castiel liked so well. “Hey, Sweetheart.” 

“Hello, Dean,” he croaked weakly. 

“Coffee wake you up?” 

“Huh?” 

Dean gestured to the steaming machine filling up a pot of coffee. “I know how you are in the morning.”

Castiel licked his dry bottom lip nervously. “Right. Yes, of course. I do enjoy my coffee.” 

“Let me get you a mug.” 

He didn’t know what was more concerning, that he was naked in Dean’s bed with not a single memory of how he got there, or that Dean knew intimate details of his life that he couldn’t possibly know. Maybe he just had a really bad hangover. 

Dean came over and sat next to him on the bed. He handed Cas the coffee, to which Castiel drank eagerly. “You look good in the morning. Have I ever told you that?” Dean asked, reaching forward and smoothing out a stray piece of hair. The touch sent a chill down Cas’ spine. 

“I don’t believe you have.” 

“Hm. I better work on saying it, then.” And Dean kissed him, as far as Castiel knew, for the second time. 

“What’s in the bag?” Castiel asked after Dean pulled back. 

“Everything bagels. Even though your breath will smell like onions.” Dean flashed an award-winning smile. “I’m just that nice.” 

Cas snorted. Something about the exchange felt a little too familiar, but still off enough to feel foreign. It was like he was living out a scene from a movie or a dream. Dean dug out one of the bagels and passed it to Castiel. He unwrapped the bagel, ripped off a piece, and plopped it into his mouth. “Perhaps I should get up and get dressed so we can go to the crime scene.” 

Dean was mid bite on his own bagel when he paused to look at Castiel. “Again? Why? Did you think of something?” 

“You said we should go there last night.” 

“No, I didn’t.” 

Cas frowned. “Are you trying to be funny?” He didn’t understand most jokes, but it just seemed mean. 

“I’m not trying to be funny, Cas.” Dean met his frown, looking intense and concerned. “We went back to the crime scene two weeks ago. There wouldn’t be much more to find at this point.” 

_Two weeks ago. What?_

“That’s impossible. The crime happened yesterday… She was killed yesterday.” 

The muscle at the base of Dean’s jaw twitched as he gritted his teeth behind his lips. He reached forward and placed gentle fingers on Castiel’s knee. “No. She wasn’t. She was killed over three weeks ago.” 

Castiel thought he was going to be sick. His bagel fell onto the sheets. “I don’t… I don’t remember anything.” 

“What do you mean?” Dean leaned forward, his touch turning a little tighter on Cas’ leg as if he was afraid that Castiel would run at any given moment. 

“The last thing I remember is you kissing me in the bathroom. After we left Inias’ place.” 

“That was two weeks ago.” Dean’s face drained of color, and his adam’s apple bobbed in his throat as he swallowed. “You really don’t remember anything?” 

He just shook his head, feeling light headed, nauseous. He felt like he wasn’t even in his body anymore, like he was looking at himself from above. 

“How is that possible?” 

Cas looked around frantically the moment all the lights seemed to ping on in his head. He reached for his pocket instinctively just to find the comforter and bare skin underneath. “Where are... Fuck where are my pants?”

“Cas, what’s happening? Hey, listen to me.” Dean was trying to stop him from panicking, but it all seemed too hopeless to _not_ panic. 

Castiel stumbled out of bed, falling to his knees, still twisted in his blanket as he yanked at the clothes on the floor. He shoved his hands into the pockets, desperate for that familiar weight and clatter of tablets against plastic. “Where the fuck is it?!”

“What is happening? Castiel, talk to me damn it!” Dean was on the floor, grabbing Cas' hands. “Look at me.” 

He hadn’t acknowledged it yet, not really, the way Dean was treating him, his own nakedness, the familiarity of his touch. His hands were shaking in Dean’s. “No, I can’t. I need..” 

“What do you need? Tell me.” 

How could he say it? How could he admit the dependence? Especially under the crushing weight of the missing time. He opened his mouth to speak, right as his eyes caught a flash of orange. He reached for it, without thinking, and pulled the bottle out of the place that it’d rolled. 

Dean said something, but it sounded muffled. All Castiel could hear was the blood rushing in his ears. 

The bottle was empty. 

_Later_

Dean had put Cas in the shower, and he sat down, allowing the stranger to soap his back and his hair. “It’s not that bad. I’ve got you.” He’d murmured promises as if any kind of words would make Castiel’s missing time okay.

He sat in Dean’s bed. His hair was dry, and Dean had him sipping some kind of herbal tea that tasted a little like grass. He hadn’t pressed more from Castiel up until that point, but Cas could tell by the flexing of Dean’s fingers that he had questions, and Cas wasn’t going to like them. 

“Can we talk?” Dean asked gently, but with a level of sternness that made his face pale a bit. 

“About what?” 

Annoyance twitched on Dean’s lip, and he shook his head. “Come on, Cas. I deserve more than that.” Did he? As far as Castiel was concerned Dean was just some man, but his nakedness from the morning and the familiarity of Dean’s touch told a completely different story. 

“I apologize.”

“I don’t want an apology. I want the truth,” Dean said curtly. 

Castiel nodded with a wince, as if he’d been striked. “I… I am medicated,” he admitted, his voice falling flat.

“Yeah, I noticed that.” 

Okay? So what else could he possibly need to know?

Dean let out a sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose. He got off of his chair and sat next to Cas on the bed. “What are the meds for, Cas?”

He winced and let out a shaky sigh. He’d been so careful up until that point. He hadn’t let anyone in… There was no risk of anyone seeing inside of him, and the places that he tried to keep private, but now everything had changed. “They’re for anxiety, mostly.” His voice was too soft, and Dean leaned forward as if he was trying to listen intently. Cas cleared his throat. 

He knew deep down that he didn’t need to be afraid of Dean. Not Dean with his soft expression, full lips, and freckled cheekbones. His chest squeezed as he looked at the detective. He felt hollow. He didn’t know the pieces that were missing, but he had a sinking feeling that he was in the middle of a love story, and he missed the moment where he tripped and fell in love with Dean.

“I was always a weird kid, and so I didn’t have a lot of friends. Inias was the only one who spent time with me, and I met him in college. He was my roommate. He found my idiosyncrasies endearing where others found them off putting. I’d decided I wanted to be a surgeon when I was younger. I was fascinated with anatomy, and the prospect of putting some good into the world with that fascination felt good.” Something tugged deep within him. It was the same feeling of terror that he got when he saw Inias hanging in the closet. He wanted to run. He wanted to swallow his pills. He wanted to disappear. 

Dean took his hand and squeezed it. His palm was warm, rough, and supportive as his thumb rubbed the back of Castiel’s hand, along his knuckles and the veins that protruded and glowed through his translucent pale skin. 

“I’m not exactly the best with words or people and bedside manner is a big piece of the job. I was good at cutting. I was good at diagnosis and reading scans, but the people were where I struggled the most. Sometimes, no matter how hard I tried, and no matter how many things I did right, I was still wrong. I was so wrong.” 

“What do you mean, Cas?”

He moved his hand from Dean’s and buried his face in his hands. He didn’t talk about it. He’d moved out of his place with Inias immediately after the incident. He curled into himself. It had all happened so fast, and he moved on just as quickly. He buried it along with all of the other pieces of shame that he lived with. He didn’t want to dig it up. 

“It’s okay, you can trust me.” 

Castiel felt his eyes well up. How could he trust Dean? He didn’t have the answer, but his presence seemed to vibrate the air between them, sparking some kind of electricity. He half expected his hair to stand on end. If he couldn’t trust Dean, then who could he trust? Inias was gone. His father was gone. He was completely alone, and for the first time in his life he didn’t want to be by himself. He sucked in his breath, trying to get his shit together enough to speak out loud. 

“I killed a little girl. Katie Samuels. I was working on talking to the families, because it affected my board certification. I was removing a tumor from her brain, and I promised… I promised her family that she would be okay. I hadn’t had any failures yet. I was cocky. I was too good, and I didn’t... I didn’t _think._ I made a wrong cut, and she was brain dead. They were devastated. The mother blamed me, and I didn’t have anything to say to make her feel better. I killed her. There wasn’t a way out of it or around it.” 

When he finally looked at Dean he was met with gentleness and a soft, supportive smile. “It wasn’t your fault, Cas. Mistakes happen.” 

“And when I make mistakes people _die,_ Dean. This isn’t the wrong order at McDonald’s,” he snapped. 

“I get that,” Dean said, his expression not faltering. 

“You’re trying to help I know… It just isn’t that simple. Even if it was a mistake, it was still my mistake. It was still my scalpel that ended her life. They couldn’t forgive me. I couldn’t forgive myself.” 

He would never forget the girl's mother crumbling into the arms of her husband. It happened in slow motion. She sobbed and pointed to him. _“You promised! You killed her. She’s dead! My little girl is dead!”_

“They had to end her life support. She was six years old,” Castiel said, his voice broken. 

“I’m sorry, Cas.” Dean sounded genuine. He sounded supportive. He only knew half of it, and Castiel wasn’t sure if he could handle the way Dean would look at him if he knew the rest.

He clamped his eyes shut. 

“Is that why you stopped working in the hospital?” Dean asked, his voice sounding far away like it was being caught by the wind and carried directly into his long term memory. 

_“Doctor Novak?”_

_“Mr. Samuels, how can I help you?”_

“The day of their daughter’s funeral, Mrs. Samuels killed herself. She couldn’t handle the grief. She collapsed and went into cardiac arrest. She’d overdosed on pills at the funeral.” 

Dean was sitting directly next to Castiel then, his arm snaked around his middle, holding him supportively. He could taste the salt from his tears on his own lips. 

_“You took everything from me. Now, I’m going to take it from you.”_

“There are these moments that you’ll never forget. I was already seeing both of their faces when I closed my eyes. I hadn’t slept in days, and the coffee cart girl had my order memorized. Red Eye with two extra shots three to four times a day. I was jittery and strictly on scut. I was picking up a lab order when Mr. Samuels came to see me.” 

Dean’s eyes widened and a look of recognition flashed across his eyes. “I remember hearing about this. I wasn’t called to the scene, but a buddy of mine was.” 

“He’d come to kill me,” Cas confirmed solemnly. “I can’t exactly blame him.” 

“Yes, you can, Cas. He went there to shoot you.” 

“If the gun hadn’t jammed he would’ve succeeded.” He smiled weakly, as if everything had been drained from him. “The first shot missed and a nurse lost her life. His hands were shaking too hard to properly aim.” 

_“Mr. Samuels you don’t have to do this.”_

_“Yes, I do. I have nothing left.”_

_Bang!_

“The gun jammed and the security guards were able to subdue him.” 

“I’m glad that they did.” 

“Sometimes I wish he succeeded.” 

“Don’t say that.” 

“I think it,” he said, his voice cracking. “Often. A part of me did die that day. I wasn’t particularly strong to start with.”

“You’re not alone in this. Not anymore. You don’t have to…” 

“Medicate?” Castiel asked weakly, with a dry laugh. 

“Continue to punish yourself.” 

“Hm.” He wiped his eyes with his thumbs and let himself lean against Dean just barely. The strength of his arm was the only thing keeping Castiel together. “I’d like to believe you, but I’m afraid that I have new things to punish myself for now.” 

“You can’t blame yourself for Inias.” 

“I can, and I am. I don’t even remember what happened. I don’t know what’s real…” 

“You’re addicted,” Dean finally said. It was what he was thinking, and Castiel had known that already, but somehow the accusation hurt nonetheless. 

“I couldn’t be a surgeon anymore. I applied for the open Medical Examiner position, and I started a week later. I thought it would help, but every corpse was Katie. Every corpse was her mother. The medicine helped. My therapist thought it would make me relax. One did, but three made me forget. I was a ghost. I’ve been living that way ever since, and it didn’t matter. No one else had gotten hurt until… until now.” 

Dean got up from the bed, and Cas’ skin tingled and cried out for his touch, immediately feeling empty from where his warmth had been. 

“You’ve been with me the whole time, Cas.” He was pacing, his band t-shirt tight on his biceps. They flexed under the fabric as he crossed his arms at his chest. “The memories are somewhere in your custard. We’ve just gotta dig them up.” 

“You can’t.” 

“Yes, we can.” His eyes flickered to Castiel’s. “I’ve done it before. With my brother.” 

He didn’t know that Dean had a brother.

“Sammy’s been on everything in the book. Started when his girl died. Dropped him at rehab a month ago. So it won’t be my first detox.” 

Castiel sat up a little straighter, his eyebrows coming together. He shook his head. “I don’t know, Dean.” 

“We’ve already started, Cas. Assuming you don’t know the last time you took one.” 

He just shook his head. 

“The bottle is empty, and we ain’t leavin’ this apartment until your blood is clean.” 

He felt the urge to run or throw up, but the intense look on Dean’s face kept him rooted. “Why are you doing this?” 

Dean stopped pacing and turned to look at Castiel. “You snuck up on me, Cas. I’ve spent my whole life taking care of my brother, which has been a lot. But the last few weeks with you… I don’t know, guess I’ve just been sleeping better. I like you, Cas. I want to see where this goes.” 

“Okay,” he said softly, and he held a hand out to Dean. 

Their hands clasped together like a promise, and he squeezed Dean’s palm. He was already in enough pain, how much worse could it possibly get?

* * *

* * *

Castiel was curled against the base of the toilet. The bathroom was spinning and fuck it was so much worse than he expected. Dean pressed a cool cloth to his forehead supportively. “I’ve got you, Buddy.” 

He closed his eyes, trying to stop the world from tilting on its axis. 

_“Do you want to talk about what we saw back there?” Dean asked, his fingers against Cas’ chin._

_“No,” he whispered. He wanted to kiss Dean again. He didn’t want to think about death and pieces of scalp shoved down the garbage disposal._

He pushed Dean away and vomited again into the toilet. It was all stomach acid and saliva. His throat burned as he dry heaved, gripping the seat. “Get it out,” Dean whispered, rubbing circles on his back. 

_“You’ve gotta get out more, Cas,” Dean laughed, handing Castiel a beer._

_“This isn’t exactly the time for pleasantries, Dean,” Cas said dryly, but he took the beer. He would take anything that Dean gave him, he knew. He sipped it, the hops biting at the back of his tongue._

_“Yeah, we’ve gotta work, but we’ve gotta eat, too. And you’ve gotta relax. You look a little wound up.”_

_“I take offense to that.”_

_“You shouldn’t.” Dean snorted with a smirk. “Just means I’m going to have to unwind you.”_

_“I look forward to seeing you try.”_

He leaned back and pressed his head against the cool tile. He just wanted it to end, but where he was sitting felt like there was no real end in sight. His fingers trembled as he reached for his glass of water that sat next to the two men on the floor. Even if it was just something else for him to vomit up, it gave him something else to focus on. 

_“Drink this, Castiel you’ll feel better.”_

_“I feel fine.”_

_Naomi held the mug to his lips. “Drink it and tell me why you are so upset.”_

_“I’m upset because everything is falling apart.”_

_“Well, that is just a little dramatic, don’t you think?”_

_“Not entirely.”_

When did he go see Naomi?

“Dean, I…” His voice was raw, hoarse.

“Cas? Fuck, Cas? Can you hear me?” 

It was like a jolt of electricity shooting through Castiel, his head jolted back hitting the tile with a _crack_ and his body was shaking, spasming without his control. 

“Cas… shit. I’ve got you.” 

He knew that Dean had a hold of his head as he thrashed in Dean’s lap. It was violent, harsh, painful, and just like before, he faded into the blackness.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by [Deancebra](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24229972) and Beta'd by @meowmeowsamurai

_Before_

“Just remember not to touch anything.” 

“This isn’t my first crime scene,” Castiel said flatly. 

“Okay, okay. I hear you.” 

The two men exited Dean’s Impala. The cold air bit at Castiel’s cheeks, stinging his skin. He pulled Dean’s leather coat tighter across his chest. Dean’s entire demeanor had changed from the relaxed stature he’d had back at the apartment. He was working now, and his eyes seemed to be scanning everything, taking it all in. He didn’t want to miss a single clue. He squatted down at the space near where they’d found the woman’s body. He scratched his chin as if he was deep in thought. 

Castiel felt awkward, out of place, and in the way. He shoved his hands in his pants pockets, fingering the plastic bottle, as he began to walk the perimeter. The ground was frozen from the icy winter air. The grass was frost tipped and glistening in the morning light. 

It all felt a little hopeless, empty, because what could they possibly find that hadn’t already been found? The evidence had already been removed, the grass no longer imprinted from where her body laid. Time and the elements eliminated anything else that they could examine. There weren’t any clues. 

His shoes crunched the frozen grass and leaves under his feet, and his breath fogged up around his face in warm puffs of white. He’d made it to the other side of the small corner park, his shoe toeing the curb. He sighed and pulled out his phone from his pocket to check his messages. He hadn’t been in to work, but Naomi had told him to take some time off anyway. How much time was enough? A few hours? Would she be looking for him? He couldn’t exactly afford to lose his job. 

He hadn’t noticed the numbness in his fingers until he tried to pull his phone from his pocket. The glass slipped against his deft fingers and tumbled to the earth. “Shit,” he muttered, crouching down to retrieve it, the toe of his shoe knocking it into the sewer grate. 

He paused there crouching and looking into the blackness of the grate and considered the probability of a demon clown yanking him to his death. Normally, he would venture to say it was unlikely, but in the wake of the week he was having, he was reconsidering. No option was off the table. 

Castiel let out a heavy sigh and rotated to where his knees were on the cold, wet ground. He reached a hand down into the grate, squinting into the darkness. His phone lit up with a _vvrrr_ as it vibrated. The light at the bottom of the shallow sewer grate glinted against a shiny piece of plastic. The light flashed again. It looked like some kind of ID-- perhaps a driver's license. 

It had to be a coincidence. No clues were that easy. They weren’t handed out on a silver platter. _Here you go, Castiel, here’s all the answers. Go tell the pretty detective. He will reward you._ He shook off the thought and instead reached his hand deeper into the grate. The metal dug into his shoulder as he strained. He turned his head to the side to get closer, his cheek pressing against the frozen, wet metal. He feared for a heartbeat that he would stick to the grate. _How humiliating._ He reached his fingers out, further, deeper, until he felt something wet. Leaves, cold and soggy from weather and time. He resisted the urge to gag as his shoulder let out a sickening _pop!_

His body went slack from the sudden onset of pain, his fingers settling in thick, standing water. He took a few deep breaths, counting to ten. 

_One._

_Inias is dead._

_Two._

_I may die here stuck in a sewer gate._

_Three._

_I quit being a doctor._

_Four._

_I have been numb most of my life._

_Five._

_But not now._

_Six._

_There’s an answer. It’s not the answer, but perhaps it is an answer._

There was a crunch behind him, a footstep. “Cas?”

_Seven._

_I am not alone. For once I’m not alone._

“Shit, did you fall?”

_Eight._

“Hey! Answer me! Cas?”

_Dean._

_Nine._

_Dean._

_Ten._

_Dean._

“I’m fine,” Cas finally managed. “I just… I dropped my phone. I can’t reach it.” 

“Don’t hurt yourself,” Dean scolded as he crouched down next to Castiel. “Come on.” His fingers were against Castiel’s upper back. 

“No, I’ve almost got it.” He grunted, stretching just a bit further until, _yes!_ His fingers barely scraped the cool plastic of his phone and then, if he could reach just a breath further. He let out a groan of pain as he nudged the laminated plastic toward him. With agonizing effort he managed to grip both pieces. “Help me up,” he said breathlessly. 

Dean obliged, pulling him up using his underarms. His shoulder was fucked, he knew that already, but in his cold, bluing hand he held his broken cellphone and a piece of worn plastic. “I think your phone is toast, Cas. Shouldn’t have risked it…” 

“Scold later,” Castiel demanded tiredly. “Look.” He nudged at Dean with the drivers license. 

“What?” Dean asked. There was a hint of annoyance in his voice until his eyes landed on the face of the woman on the ID. “Fuck.” 

“What is it?” 

“It’s her. Meg Masters.” 

Castiel let out a laugh, relief flooding his chest and almost numbing the pain that throbbed through his shoulder. “Good.” 

“You found this in there?” 

“Saw it once my phone fell.” 

“Damn, Cas,” Dean said softly, as he cupped Castiel’s cheek in his somehow-warm hand. “Starting to think you’re some kind of lucky charm.” 

Castiel gave Dean a weak smile. “I think my shoulder is out of the socket.” 

Dean’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “What? You’re just tellin’ me this?” He pulled at Castiel’s coat gently to expose his already swelling shoulder. He winced in pain as Dean’s fingers danced along the joint. “Damn it, Cas.” 

“Sorry,” he mumbled, closing his eyes. 

“Don’t say sorry. Just… don’t get hurt, alright?” 

Dean Winchester. _Don’t get hurt, alright?_ He was this tough detective, but he had this way about him that felt too soft. Being near him almost felt like being near a fireplace. It was this warmth that radiated, licking at his cheeks, the crackle and the scent sucking him in. When he was with Dean he felt safe. It wasn’t logical, but he supposed relationships typically weren’t. 

“Maybe we should get you to the emergency room.” 

“No,” he grunted, shaking his head. “Just pop it back in.” 

Dean made a face, his lip curling back and his eyebrows coming together in distaste. “You want me to do what?” 

“Pop it back in,” Cas said through gritted teeth. “It’s easy.” 

“I think we have different definitions of easy.” 

During his pediatric rotation he’d done it several times himself. “Come on, Dean. I can’t possibly pop my own arm back into place. Just help.” 

Dean let out a sigh and nodded. “Fine, fuck, okay. What do you need me to do?” 

“Take my wrist. Pull it forward and straight in front of me fast. Don’t tell me when you’re going to pull. It’s better when it’s a surprise.” He closed his eyes as he felt Dean’s fingers curl around his wrist and yank with a single breath, and for half a second he thought he was going to pass out. “Good job,” he gasped out, letting his head fall back slightly. Dean caught his back, his palm flat between his shoulder blades. “It’s okay, Cas. I’ve got ya.” 

* * *

* * *

Castiel knocked on the glass of the window to the leasing office of Inias’ apartment. “Hello?”

“Come on, your hours say you’re open,” Dean called through the circular section of holes that were cut out for talking between the glass. 

The blonde woman behind the glass looked up at him from over the book she was reading. She pointed to piece of paper that had been taped on the inside of the glass that had _I’m eating lunch, fuck off!_ Dean narrowed his eyes, unimpressed. 

He pulled his badge off his hip and slid it through the opening onto her desk. Her eyes flashed to it as he said, “Hope you’ll reconsider ma’am.” 

She closed her book and forward. She was in her early forties, Castiel surmised, by the way her skin hung on her cheekbones. His eyes flickered down to the book on her desk _A Guide to Divorce, you don’t need him sister!_

Castiel felt that he was notoriously the saddest person in the room, by default. Now, he wasn’t so sure. 

“How can I help you, Detective?” 

“We have a question about a former tenant of yours.” 

“I’ll do my best to answer whatever questions you have, but people come and go here so fast sometimes it feels like I never even saw them. It’s a building of goddamn ghosts.” 

“He’s lived here for years,” Castiel offered, his voice hoarse. Even standing in the lobby, even during the day felt like too much. He could still see Inias hanging in the closet, his hair clumped in the sink. 

“You recognize this guy?” Dean asked, sliding an old photograph of Inias and Castiel. Cas stood awkwardly next to Inias, who was grinning like a complete idiot wearing his cap and gown. Even from the blurry resolution Cas could see the bags under his own eyes. “Apartment 415?” 

She picked up the photograph and looked at it, examining the photo, the two men in front of her, and then the photo again. “Yeah, I knew him. He was a good tenant. Never caused anyone problems. He was cute, too. Always asked how my day was.” her gaze lingered on the photograph again before sliding it back through the slot to Dean. “Is he in some kind of trouble?” 

“We are having a hard time locating him,” Dean said, seriously. 

_Dead. Missing. Hurt._

Words bounced around Castiel’s skull like a loose ping pong ball. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on his breathing before he fucking lost it right there in the middle of the complex. 

“He moved out a few weeks ago, detective. It was pretty sudden. He didn’t even want to wait to see if he got to keep the deposit.” 

“Did he leave a forwarding address?” 

She shook her head no, and Castiel’s mouth went dry. 

“What was he like when you talked to him?” Dean asked. He looked serious, cool, and collected. “Did he seem agitated, afraid?” 

“I didn’t talk to him. Well… not directly. He sent me an email.” 

Castiel pressed closer to the glass. “Can we see the email?” He found himself asking, pressing his fingertips to the glass, leaving marks behind as Dean touched his wrist gently, urging him to back up. 

“It would be helpful, ma’am,” Dean added, not looking at Castiel as he offered her a warm smile. 

Her cheeks flushed, and she looked down for a moment. “Let me see what I can do. We normally wouldn’t… but if it’d help you, _detective_.” 

Cas flexed his fingers at his side anxiously. She didn’t get it. They didn’t have time to flirt. His friend was dead, or if he was alive, he was almost out of time. 

The woman shuffled around her office. From his angle it looked like she was shuffling paper, but he guessed she was cleaning up her work space, because a moment later she opened her side door and waved them both into the tight space. 

He didn’t like it. Her door clicked shut, and he immediately felt like he was suffocating. He scratched at his throat absentmindedly and tried to focus on something through the glass, but all he could see was his smudged fingerprints. From there they almost looked like scratches on the inside of a coffin. 

“He emailed me late at night, which I thought was odd. He never communicated through email, but it seemed urgent.” She sat in her office chair and typed on the computer, pulling up the email. She clicked a few times before turning the screen. 

The two men leaned forward to read the email. 

_I am sorry to do this without notice. I’m sure it’s going to put you in a difficult position. That was never my intention. Please take this as the notice of my immediate evacuation of the building. I have arranged for the remainder of my lease to be paid out, but please feel free to rent the space as I will not be returning. I have gotten an opportunity that I cannot pass up._

_I wish you well._

_Inias_

Dean looked to Castiel for some kind of confirmation, but Castiel barely saw Dean turn to him. His eyes were focused on Inias’ name. It pulsed, throbbed, the letters bent with the beat of his heart. _Dead dead dead dead dead._ It sang in his head like a nursery rhyme. Like little girls jump roping. The slap of the rope with every beat of his heart. 

“Cas, buddy, you okay?” Dean asked. 

He sounded far away. Everything did. 

That wasn’t Inias. He didn’t talk like that. _Castiel_ talked like that. The words felt strange, but familiar. 

He felt like he was going to throw up. His stomach twisted and cramped, and he covered his mouth in horror. 

_I did this._

He didn’t know how, and he didn’t recall doing it, but he knew that he’d written those words before. 

“Cas?” Dean asked as he pressed his palm to Castiel’s shoulder. 

The touch made him shoot up in his seat, shaking his head. “No, no, no. I have to get out of here.” 

He turned the knob on the door and pushed out of the cramped space with the thick, unbreathable air, and he ran. He ran through the lobby and out into the street, gasping for the taste of fresh air that he could never hope to get in the city. 

He collapsed to his knees, his palms on the asphalt. 

“Cas, hey,” Dean called after him. He kneeled next to Castiel and rubbed his back. “Hey, you good?” 

“No,” Castiel gasped. “I’m not. I’m not good.” 

“Look at me.” He placed his index finger under Cas’ chin, and he turned his face so their eyes could meet. “What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?” 

“I think…” He couldn’t say it, not out loud. He couldn’t admit it, not to Dean… Not to himself. 

“Whatever it is you can tell me,” he promised. His thumb traced along Castiel’s jaw. His expression was soft, caring, understanding. 

“I can’t explain it,” he said finally after a brief pause. “But the email...those words… They were mine.” 

“What do you mean?”

“I recognized the email as if I typed it myself.”

Dean’s jaw tightened. “Did you kill Inias, Cas?” 

“No,” he said suddenly, his eyes widening. “Of course not.”

_I couldn’t have._

_I didn’t._

_I did._

“Then we will figure out the rest, okay?” 

Castiel just nodded, because he didn’t have a single other thing to say. 

* * *

* * *

“Are you sure you can get in and out without being seen?” Dean asked nervously, leaning over the center console in Castiel’s car. 

Castiel looked to the outside entrance to the morgue in front of him and pressed his lips together tightly. “I have to see if there’s any documentation left, any proof that she was ever here. I can get in and out without being seen. I did it most days I worked here. No one pays attention to the medical examiner.”

Dean looked unconvinced, concern knitted his eyebrows together. “You sure?”

“Yes, I am certain. I will be fine.” He touched Dean’s hand, his fingers brushing Dean’s knuckles. “I will be fine,” he repeated softly. 

Dean’s green eyes met his, and they were deep and unwavering. They were the depths of the sea, threatening to swallow Castiel whole, and if he was being honest, he would willingly drown within them. “You’ll be fine,” Dean said, his voice echoing Castiel’s own. 

Cas wanted to kiss him, but instead he just squeezed Dean’s fingers and got out of the car. The door shut with a click that seemed to echo in the empty, silent air. It was too quiet, and he felt like he was in a dream. The soft morning fog seemed to blanket him in, surround him on all sides. All he could see was the door to the morgue. There had to be answers within the walls. She had been there. The weight of her ID in his pocket told him that she was real. The phantom touch of Dean’s knuckles told him that she was real, but they needed something more. Something tangible. Something that _proved_ it without a doubt.

So he walked to the door and pulled his key card out of his pocket and swiped it in the slot. He watched the light turn from a glowing crimson to a bright emerald green, the lock clicking open. He turned the knob and pushed into the morgue. The hallways were dim as always, and the familiar smell of formaldehyde stung his nose. He was suddenly so much more aware of the weight of the bottle in his pocket. The pills jingled, bouncing, and clattering, the sound seeming to echo through the empty hallway. 

The hallway stretched in front of him impossibly long, the silver doors at the end gleaming in the low fluorescent lights. It felt so far away, like he would never reach it. Perhaps he should turn around and go back to Dean. He could go back to the apartment and hide under the covers. Before he could find any comfort in the thought, Inias popped into his head. His friend's smile gleamed in his memory brighter than the silver doors that led to the answers he could only hope he would find behind the cold and sterile exterior. The weight in his gut pressed and twisted, stopping him in front of the door, his fingers outstretched to push the swinging door open. He stood there, completely frozen. What if the answers he seeked weren't the ones he wanted? The fear of the unknown wrapped around him, coiling and squeezing the air out of his body. 

_“There’s been a murder. We need you to come up here. There’s a new detective, and I think it’s the first time he’s seen a stiff. We could use you here.”_

Inias had asked for him. Inias was his friend. _Inias is dead._ His chest ached at the thought and he reached into his pocket, pulling out his pill bottle and popping the cap. 

Two would be enough, he knew. They'd take the edge off. They'd erase Inias' grin from the front of his mind. They'd give him the strength to push forward, to take a step, to complete his task, to not be such a fucking coward. 

He swallowed them dry. They crept down his throat in an almost crawl, and he resisted the urge to vomit. He bit back the bile and clicked the cap back on the bottle and slipped it into his pocket for safe keeping. 

He sucked in his breath and held it for a beat, letting the pills settle within him before his fingers brushed the cold metal, the pressure of the door against his fingers felt stronger than he was used to as he pushed the door open. 

The space was undisturbed as far as he could tell. His instruments were just as he left them when Naomi had last asked him to leave the building. He trailed his fingers along the cold surfaces, reeling in the familiarity of the space. He’d been thrown off balance and being back in that room gave himself some solid footing, somewhere safe to stand. The morgue had been his saving grace after his surgery career had fallen through the cracks, he’d melted into a person he didn’t recognize, one he didn’t want to. He used to think the morgue had saved him, but now he wasn’t so sure. 

He didn’t have the same feeling with his scalpel as he did when he was with Dean. The cold, unforgiving surfaces of the morgue didn’t send butterflies through him, or make him feel safe. Not anymore. 

He walked to his desk in the back of the room. He picked up his clipboard and ran his fingers along the edge of where a page had been ripped. He knew it had. He couldn’t prove that it was Meg’s page, but it was something. He opened his desk drawer, not sure what he was looking for, but anything was better than nothing. He moved pens, bright colored Post-It notes, and shuffled through meaningless papers that honestly needed to be shredded. 

“Doctor Novak?” 

Her voice slithered into the room like a snake in the brush. _Naomi._ The sense that he’d been caught made his stomach fall through his ass, splatting on the floor. “Naomi.” He sat up straight in his chair, his fingers still shoved deep inside of his desk drawer. 

“What are you doing here, Castiel?” 

“I left something in my desk.” 

“Oh?”

“Yes,” he said stiffly, pulling out the first thing that his fingers touched. He held up a bright pink pad of Post-It’s. 

“Well you couldn’t forget something so special, could you?” She asked, dryly. “Can you come to my office, Castiel?” 

He recoiled, sliding back further in his chair, his back bumping the wall as she stepped closer to him, his desk still between them. “I was actually leaving…”

“You were, but now you’re coming with me.” It wasn’t a question. 

He nodded in response, standing up slowly, his pink Post-It’s crumpling in his palm. Castiel followed Naomi to her office, every step echoing through the halls, through his head, the walls seemed to tilt as he walked, making his head spin. He wanted to dial Dean, as he could feel his phone bounce against his thigh from the inside of his pocket as he walked. 

Naomi stopped to unlock her office door, twisting the key, letting it click open. She swung the door to allow him inside and immediately walked to her electric kettle. “I asked you to not come back to work, Castiel,” she said, almost sweetly. 

“I know. I apologize… I just needed…” 

“To get the notes from your desk.” Her lips were in a tight line as she spoke. “I remember.” That shut him up almost immediately, and he swallowed hard. She poured a mug of tea and squeezed honey into it from the golden, bear-shaped container. She stirred it with a spoon three times before handing it to Castiel. 

He took it and held it in his palms, the heat stinging his skin. “I shouldn’t have.” 

“I’ve never known you to be defiant, Castiel.” 

Naomi continued to say his name, a sweet hiss. He could see her, then, crouched in the grass looking up at him with large, slitted eyes. _Take a bite. Just one little bite can’t hurt._

“I’m not defiant.” Even as he said it he could taste the lies on his tongue. They were thick like cotton, and he suppressed a cough in his throat. 

“Of course you aren’t. Have a drink. You’re under a lot of stress. I know that,” she sat on the edge of her desk, and looked down at him. A predator and her prey. His eyes flickered down to the mug in his hands, and he felt sick to his stomach. He knew, deep in his gut that he couldn’t drink it. 

“I’m not thirsty.” 

“Drink it, Castiel. It’s good for you.” 

“No.” 

She recoiled at that and reached her hand out, her finger pressing on the bottom of the mug, raising it to his lips. “Now.” 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by [Deancebra](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24229972) and Beta'd by @meowmeowsamurai

_ Present _

Everything was fuzzy around the edges. Castiel was groggy, his head pounding, his body aching. He could hear talking, but it sounded distant, far away. He opened his mouth to speak but he couldn't. It was all too much. His fingers felt heavy and his hand stung. 

“Really? Fuck, yeah give me a second. Uh huh. Yeah. Wait, slow down. Uh huh.  _ Demon  _ blood? Like, from Hell? Shit. No, it’s no smack. You’re right about that.” 

_ Dean? _

Castiel forced open his heavy lids to look for Dean. They were in a hospital, he gathered from the beeping machines, wires, and tubes sticking out of his skin. Dean looked like hell. He was wearing a gray t-shirt with a pair of jeans. Only one of his boots was laced. He was pinching the bridge of his nose and talking into his phone urgently, his other hand tapping a pen against a notepad as he tried to scribble down whatever was being said to him over the phone. He seemed so far away, somewhere stuck in the haze. 

He dropped his hand from his face and his eyes flickered, meeting Castiel’s. A small smile tugged at Dean’s mouth and he whispered, “Gotta call you back.” He hung up the phone and slid it into his pocket. “Hey there, Sleeping Beauty. Gave us quite the scare back there.” 

“What happened?” Castiel asked, his voice hoarse, raw, and quiet. 

Dean’s smile faded from his face, and he walked to Cas sitting on the edge of the bed he took Cas’ hand in his and smiled weakly. “You had a seizure, man.” 

“What?” 

“It's a side effect of withdrawal. You must’ve got something when you went into work… I don’t think I wanted to believe it, but you were fucked up, Cas. When you left you were fucked up, and I wanted to believe it was something else. It was the circumstances, you hadn’t eaten enough… whatever. You went into the morgue to look for evidence and you were doing drugs.” Dean’s eyes flickered away, hurt. 

Castiel’s chest cracked open. “It’s not like that,” he choked out.

“I want to believe you, buddy. I really do.” 

_ “Think I’m fallin’ for you, Cas.”  _

Castiel touched his head, wincing as the missing time bounced around inside of his skull. “Then believe me.” 

“Can’t. It’s bigger than just my feelings here. You’ve gotta know that. You’re not safe like this.” 

He stood up, and Castiel grabbed for him, catching the edge of his shirt in his fist. “Don’t leave Dean.” He couldn’t be alone, and he knew in his gut if Dean walked out that door he would never see him again. “Please don’t leave me.” 

“It ain’t about leaving you, Cas. I don’t want to leave you. I have to.” He pried Castiel’s fingers from his shirt. “I’ve got a lead to follow. I’ll visit you later, okay?” 

_ Take me with you,  _ he wanted to say. He wanted to cry, to beg, to scream, but he didn’t. He just nodded, his fingers twisted in his sheets, as he watched Dean grab his coat and notepad before walking out the door. 

_ Before _

**Dean**

Cas stumbled out of the building, looking pale as hell, which was saying something considering how pale he always looked. “Hey,” Dean said, hopping out of the car. He jogged to meet Cas, who just about fell into his arms. “You good?” 

“‘M good,” Cas mumbled against his shoulder. 

“Let’s get you into the car.” Dean helped him into the passenger seat clasping the buckle. Castiel turned to him with heavy lidded eyes. “I don’t have any answers, Dean.” 

“It’s okay, buddy,” Dean said softly. “Was a long shot anyway.” 

“Long shot,” he repeated. 

“You feelin’ okay?” Dean asked again, looking at him intently. 

Cas nodded slowly. “I’m just a little dizzy.”

“You haven’t eaten anything today but coffee.” He offered Cas a supportive smile. “Let’s try lunch.” 

“Lunch,” Cas repeated quietly. 

Dean nodded to him before closing the door and walking around to get into the driver's seat. It was no secret that Castiel Novak was a little off. He knew that the moment he saw him. It made him interesting though. He was complex. He was a 50 year old scotch. There were some things in life that were just worth it, but more than anything, he believed Dean. Cas believed him when no one else did, and that meant something to him. So even though Cas didn’t seem okay, Dean started the car and backed out of the driveway anyway. 

In Dean’s world, food and beer could fix anything. Any wrong doing could be erased by a cheeseburger with extra bacon. He was a simple man, but there were worse things to be. He wasn’t a fool, he knew things weren’t good. He knew it was going to be that simple, but he at least had to try. So he drove to his favorite dive bar, The Roadhouse, the one that had the best burgers in town, hands down. 

“Where are we?” Cas asked, squinting out the window. He looked a little better already, Dean thought. Maybe it wasn’t being stuck in the morgue for an hour under screaming fluorescents. He needed some sunlight. Did the body good. 

“Food,” Dean said with a soft smile. “We’re getting burgers.” 

Cas made a face like he didn’t like that idea, his eyebrows coming together and his lips turning up in distaste. 

Dean laughed in response, the chuckle bubbling up in his stomach, tugging his mouth into a smile. “Don’t give me that dirty diaper look. Sammy does the same thing.” 

“Sammy?”

“Maybe after a beer or two,” Dean said with a soft compromise. He opened the door and got out of the car, heading inside. He grabbed a high-top at the back of the bar and settled in on the stool. He handed Cas a menu that was tucked behind the condiments against the wall. “You can look, but the best thing is the bacon cheeseburger hands down.” 

Castiel stared at the menu, his eyebrows knitted, his blue eyes seeming to glow against his pale skin. “I don’t usually have cheeseburgers.” 

“Please tell me you aren’t a salad guy,” Dean said, deadpanned. That could be a deal breaker. Dean was what he liked to call a  _ meat man _ . He didn’t eat rabbit food. No dice. 

“I often forget to eat,” Cas admitted almost shyly, and he was so damn cute with his shaggy hair and big blue eyes that it made Dean’s stomach flip. 

“Shouldn’t do that, Cas.” 

“I know.” 

Dean wasn’t sure he believed him. 

The waitress came over to them, her blonde curls falling down her back, and her jeans resting low on her hips. “What can I get you boys?” 

“Jo,” he grinned.

“Dean,” she said back, unimpressed. 

He shifted awkwardly in his seat. “Two of the regular.” 

“And what about for blue eyes over here?” She asked teasingly, her eyes challenging. 

“Ha-ha.” 

Jo grinned back at him before sliding the menus off the table. “That’ll be right up, boys.” 

They were just about the only customers in The Roadhouse, except for an old drunk drowning in his whiskey, slumped on the stool, and a woman focused on her crossword puzzle on the other side of the bartop. “Want to talk about what happened?”

“Nothing to tell,” Cas said absentmindedly as he picked at the peeling edge of the coaster in front of him. 

“You were gone for almost an hour.” 

“It was my boss,” he confessed. “She caught me rifling through my desk.”

“Shit,” Dean said, leaning forward. “Is everything okay? You in trouble?” 

Cas was quiet for a moment, those eyebrows back together, his forehead wrinkling. “No. She just seemed worried about me. She really wants me to take time off.” 

Relief flooded his chest as Dean let out a breath that he didn’t realize he was holding.  _ Thank fucking god.  _

“That’s good, Cas. that’s real fucking good.”

Jo came over with a couple of pint glasses, placing one in front of both of the men along with a bottle of ketchup between them. “Thanks,” Dean said as he grabbed his glass. He pressed his lips to the edge and took a satisfying sip. The hops bit at the back of his tongue and he hummed at the satisfying pine flavor that tingled his taste buds. “The best,” he mused. “Try it.” 

“Maybe we shouldn’t be drinking…” 

“You’ve gotta get out more, Cas,” Dean laughed, sliding Castiel his beer.

“This isn’t exactly the time for pleasantries, Dean,” Cas said dryly, but he took the beer anyway. Watching Cas’ face as he sipped the beer, his lips turning downward in a frown made Dean a little giddy inside. 

“Yeah, we’ve gotta work, but we’ve gotta eat, too. And you’ve gotta relax. You look a little wound up.” 

“I take offense to that.” 

“You shouldn’t.” Dean snorted with a smirk. “Just means I’m going to have to unwind you.” 

Cas looked up at Dean from over his glass, his eyes challenging. “I look forward to seeing you try.” He seemed better even still. Maybe it was being away from all of the chemicals, or maybe it was just he and Dean being together that made Cas relax just a hitch. 

“Buddy you’ve got a deal.” 

_ Present  _

**Dean**

Walking away from Cas in the hospital was one of the hardest things that Dean ever had to do, but he had to do it. He had a lead on the drug that Meg had in her system. Demon Blood was what they were calling it. It was dangerous and secret. It was a miracle that he got tipped off on it in the first place. 

He walked to his car, the Impala parked under a tree on the side of the parking lot. There was still so much that he didn’t know. He was so preoccupied, wrapped up and twisted inside of his own thoughts that he almost missed the paper stuck under his wiper on his windshield. 

He reached forward, plucking the folded page. He leaned against the car and unfolded it carefully. It didn’t seem like a parking ticket, and he knew all about those. It was handwritten in red, messy scrawl on printer paper. 

_ Let it go, or let go of Sammy.  _

He read the line about a thousand times before his stomach twisted in on itself. Suddenly, nothing else mattered. He had to go see his brother. 

Dean got in the car and turned the radio up to block out his thoughts, his fears that were bouncing around inside of his skull. He hadn’t told Cas, fuck he hadn’t told  _ anyone  _ where Sammy was. What had happened to his brother after Sam’s fiancee died in that fire. He’d gone off the deep end. It started slow, drinking and pot. He wanted to be fucked up and stay fucked up so he wouldn’t have to face the reality of everything. It just about killed Dean watching his brother disappear in front of him. He wanted to give his little brother the space he needed, but the space almost ruined everything. He’d found Sammy in the bathtub, the shower running, and a needle still stuck in his arm. His lips were blue.

The Winchester brothers had tumbled to rock bottom together, as they’d done everything together. 

Sam was in a rehab facility up state, and Dean hadn’t gotten up the nerve to go and see him. He couldn’t look his brother in the face without so much regret that he thought he’d be sick. He couldn’t get the image of his tall, strong brother looking so goddamn small, soaking wet, and dead in front of him. He called 911 and did chest compressions until the ambulance arrived. He pushed and pushed on his brother’s chest until his arms screamed out in pain, and then he pushed again. He’d never forget the sound and feeling of his brother's chest cracking under the pressure of his hands. 

Sam had been in rehab for six months, and the closer Dean got to the facility the more his stomach twisted. He felt sick and anxious. Especially since his denial had allowed the same shit to happen to Cas, right under his nose. He knew better. He just didn’t want to believe it. He didn’t want to have to say goodbye again. It was too damn hard. 

But he guessed that he didn’t have much of a choice anymore, especially with the threat scribbled on a piece of paper curled in his fist and pressed against the steering wheel. If Sammy was getting threatened that meant that Dean and Cas were closing in on the answer. He couldn’t let anything happen to his brother, but he couldn’t let this go either. It was too damn fragile. Two were dead already, maybe more. Dean was a detective, an officer of the law. He couldn’t just sit on it. It wasn’t in him. 

He pulled up to the facility and parked out front. Rows of dead flowers were stark against the white, clinical exterior of the building. Part of him desperately wanted to turn back, to tuck tail and run, but he was so close to Sammy that he felt the pull in his chest. He missed his baby brother. He missed Sam more than his own fear that pulled at him. More than anything. 

Dean pressed the red button by the front door, a ringing sound coming through the speaker. “Can I help you?” A female voice purred through the static. 

“Here to see Sam Winchester. Uh, I’m visiting,” he said awkwardly, leaning into the speaker like an idiot.

“Come on in,” she said, before a buzzing sound erupted, the lock on the door audibly clicking. 

He opened the door and stepped into the lobby. It smelled  _ clean  _ like Clorox and over-sprayed Febreeze.  _ Cotton fresh my ass,  _ Dean thought grumpily. He scribbled his name on the check-in sheet and headed straight to Sam’s room. After four months of sobriety Sam got a more relaxed schedule. He had to go to group twice a day, therapies, exercise, but other than that he could go where he pleased within the facility. Dean just hoped that Sam was napping instead of off swimming or playing tennis or whatever the fuck they did for fun around there. 

He stood in front of Sam’s door, his fist hovering, preparing to knock, but he couldn’t find the strength. He couldn’t shake the image of Sam’s blue lips from his mind. He closed his eyes and counted to three. He had to man up. There were bigger things at work than  _ this.  _ Than his own fear. He had to--

“Dean?” 

He hadn’t heard the door open. He was too wrapped up in his own mind. His eyes focused on his brother, three inches taller than him, his hair combed back, and his cheeks pink. He looked good. He looked  _ healthy  _ and strong. “Sammy,” Dean said with an exhale. “Hi.” 

“What are you doing here?” 

“I just…” He didn’t know how much he should disclose. He didn’t know what was safe… but looking at his brother, his best friend, it was hard not to just immediately spill everything. “Can we go somewhere and talk?” 

Sam’s eyebrows shot up immediately, probably reading Dean like a book. “Sure. Let’s go to the gardens.” 

The Winchester brothers walked side by side in a comfortable silence. There was so much to say, but no words to say it. The gardens turned out to be a hedge maze that went about to Dean’s shoulders. He followed Sam silently through two rights and a left before settling into the center of the maze. There was a large fountain in the center that had no water in it, drained for the cold weather, surrounded by benches. A chill ran up his spine in response to the eeriness surrounding the cold stones and moss covered angel statue in the center. 

Sam took a seat on one of the benches. The entire maze seemed to be empty, void of sound apart from the breeze dancing through the hedges. Sam rested his arms on his thighs and clasped his hands together. “I’ve wanted to talk to you for months,” Sam admitted. His eyebrows were together, furrowed, concerned. 

“I’m sorry I haven’t been around.” 

“I don’t blame you.” 

_ “I hate you!” Sam screamed as Dean walked away, buzzing out of the facility.  _

“I blame me,” Dean said, his eyes meeting his brothers. He lowered himself onto the stone edge of the fountain across from his brother.

“I wanted to thank you. For saving my life and for getting me into this program.” 

“Don’t have to thank me, Sammy.” 

“Sure I do. You could’ve given up and left me for dead. You didn’t. That means something. I also wanted to say I’m sorry…” 

“Stop.” Dean put up his hand. He couldn’t take it. Not when there was a killer on the loose. It was too much. There was only so much a man could take, afterall. 

“Dean just let me apologize. It’s a part of my recovery to make amends.” 

“Sam that isn’t why I’m here,” Dean said seriously, not trying to scare him. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“I’ve been working this case,” he said, his voice hushed. “A woman was killed. It looked like an overdose, but I think she was murdered.”

Sam frowned a little deeper, wringing his hands.

Maybe Dean shouldn’t have mentioned it. It couldn’t be good for Sam’s recovery. He sucked in his breath, looking at his baby brother. “I think it’s connected with a new street drug… they’re calling it Demon Blood.” A look of recognition flashed across Sam’s face, which made Dean sit up a little straighter. “You’ve heard of it?” 

“Who was the girl?” Sam asked tightly. “Can you tell me that?” 

Dean eyed his brother suspiciously, but he folded quickly at the softness of his brothers expression, the wetness along his eyes, and all the pain that accompanied it. “Her name was Meg Masters.” 

All of the color drained from Sam’s face almost immediately. He looked ill. “Fuck I think I’m going to be sick,” he muttered, covering his mouth. 

“Deep breaths, hey, Sam? Look at me,” Dean instructed, and his brother followed suit. Dean held his shoulders and looked into his eyes. “What’s going on? Did you know her?” 

Sam nodded slowly, and he let his little brother get his composure before squeezing his shoulders supportively as if he was saying  _ it’s okay, I’m here. You can tell me.  _ “She was a resident here. A friend. She left a month ago… but Dean she was clean. She worked the program hard. She didn’t want… she didn’t want to use anymore.” Pain flashed across Sam’s face again and Dean wasn’t sure if it was from the loss of a friend, or from the knowledge that he could backslide hard. Rock bottom wasn’t always something that a guy can come back from. 

“I’m not too convinced that she was using.” His eyes locked on Sam. If they knew each other then Sam could be in danger anyway, even without his connection to Dean. He may already be connected to the case. “Do you know if she had any enemies? Anyone that would want to hurt her?” 

Sam shook his head and took a few deep breaths. “There was this woman who visited her a lot, she had long dark hair… she was short, hell almost a foot shorter than me. Their relationship seemed intense. Meg was always quiet when she left.” 

“Do you know her name?” 

Sam squinted at his hands, deep in thought. “Don’t know a last name, but I’m pretty sure her name was Ruby.” 

_ No.  _ Dean stood up, digging around his pockets for his phone.  _ No no no.  _

“What’s going on? Dean?” 

It couldn’t be! It had to be a coincidence. His hands shook as he brought up some photos that he’d taken at the department Christmas party. “Sammy, is this Ruby?” He asked, handing his brother the phone as he lowered himself back into a seated position. “Do any of those women look familiar.” 

Sam nodded slowly as he examined the picture. “Yeah, that’s Ruby… and I’ve seen that other woman as well,” he said, pointing to the background. Dean’s stomach dropped again as he looked at the beautiful blue eyes, even blurred and from so far away, of Cas. He looked unbelievably awkward, and Dean was kicking himself for not noticing him then. They would’ve had so much more time. His chest ached at the thought. 

Then his eyes scanned to the woman that Cas was talking to. It was his boss, Naomi. “She was here?” 

Sam nodded, looking at Dean. “Only once, but Meg almost slipped when she was here. It wasn’t good, Dean.” 

He stood up instantly. That’s all he needed to know. “Ruby works in my office. She’s on the narcotics team. 

“Fuck.” 

“Yeah, fuck is right,” Dean said tightly. His head was spinning, and he could hardly get a handle on it. “I’m checking you out of this place. I’ll make a call. I’ve got somewhere you can go.” 

“Dean, wait. I can’t go…” 

“They threatened you, Sammy,” Dean said, grabbing his brother's biceps to make him look at Dean. “They know you’re here and they know I’m close to cracking this. I have to crack it wide open… and I…” He sighed. “I forgive you, Sam. you know that, right? I forgave you the day you were born.” 

Sam seemed to examine his brother's face, searching for something before he nodded. “Yeah, okay. Where are we going?” 

“Her name is Sheriff Jody Mills, and she’s gonna take good care of you.” 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by [Deancebra](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24229972) and Beta'd by @meowmeowsamurai

Castiel used to never have a problem with being alone. He preferred it. He didn’t _need_ anyone, but as he laid in that hospital bed staring at the white walls and adjusting his stinging sheets he found himself needing Dean. It was a strange, out of body feeling. It wasn’t something that he was used to, or comfortable with, but there he was… feeling it nonetheless. 

He’d been sleeping on and off, vomiting, fighting the chills. His doctor had explained that he had high amounts of drugs in his system. Which wasn’t what was surprising to him. What shocked him was that some of the drugs that he was testing positive for were some he didn’t remember taking. He’d never taken them. His mouth was dry at the thought. He knew mixing was problematic. It could cause hallucinations, confusion, _memory loss,_ blackouts. 

Something felt horribly wrong. 

He was going to have to go to rehab, he knew that already. It was par for the course. It was past being needed. At the thought, though, he wanted to run. His veins itched, and he kept reaching for his hip instinctively. When it became too much he was searching for that familiar numbness that he craved. He didn’t want to feel. He didn’t want to face his mistakes, his pain, and the defined, sharp memory of Dean walking away. Deep within him, he knew that he wouldn’t see Dean again. It was the end, long before it ever really got started. 

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been in that room alone, time was ticking and warping in front of his eyes, making him dizzy. He didn’t like the man that he’d turned into, and being alone with _that_ thought was far worse than anything else that he could’ve imagined. 

He didn’t understand how Dean could like him. How he could look at Castiel with a softness that he’d never experienced. There was an unbelievable kindness within the detective that Castiel wasn’t sure he would ever deserve, and he loved Dean. He loved him deep inside of himself in a way that made his chest ache and his fingers itch. Love was a risk. _People_ were a risk. Caring. They were all things that Castiel tried to avoid at all cost, but there he was, pining desperately after a man that probably would never return. Cas couldn’t even blame him if he didn’t. Castiel didn’t think he would come back if the roles were reversed. 

He was a train wreck, he knew that. If he were a better man he wouldn’t wish for Dean to return. He would get his shit together, go to rehab, and move on with his pathetic life. But he wasn’t a better man. He was just Doctor Castiel Novak, a disaster, a mess, and only human. 

The door opened, and he winced instinctively, expecting his doctor to enter with another round of bad news. He could hear his heartbeat pick up on the machine, the beeps speeding up rapidly as his eyes locked on Dean’s. 

“Hey,” Dean said softly, closing the door behind him. “How are you feeling?” 

Castiel opened his mouth to speak, but it suddenly felt so dry, like his tongue would crack and crumble in his mouth if he moved too quickly. He swallowed hard and composed himself before croaking, “better, thank you.” 

A look of relief flooded across Dean’s face, and he nodded quickly. “That’s good, Cas. That’s real good.” Dean walked to him slowly, with caution. 

“I won’t bite,” Cas said shyly, extending a hand out to Dean. “I… It’s good to see you, Dean.” _I missed you,_ he wanted to shout. _Come be with me._ But he couldn’t, he knew that. 

“Aw,” Dean said, shooting him an ornery grin that tugged at the corners of Castiel’s own lips. “You sure? I may be into it.” 

“Then perhaps I will.” 

Dean's expression softened, and he walked to Cas, sitting on the edge of the hospital bed. “I’m not sure if I should talk about the case,” he admitted.

“I want to know.” 

Dean looked down at his lap, considering, before he took Cas' hand in his. "I went to see my brother, and I learned some more information about Meg." 

Cas' eyebrows came together in confusion, feeling the callous on Dean's trigger finger from hours at the shooting range. His hand felt protective, strong, and it sent a sensation of safety through Castiel. "From your brother? Did they know each other?" 

Dean paused, his green eyes crinkling, softening, and wetting at the edges. He looked upset and it made Castiel's stomach drop. "My brother is in rehab, and so was Meg. They were friends in the program, and he told me about a woman named Ruby who met with her and made her agitated…"

He leaned forward to look at Dean, frowning. "What are you holding back, Dean?"

"Ruby works with me in Narcotics, but that wasn't the only person who Sammy recognized." 

Castiel anticipated it before Dean said it, it made his head spin, his vision blurred at the edge, and his heart rate spiked on his monitor. 

"It's your boss, Naomi. I think she's in on it." 

His eyes stung and bile rose in his throat. "Dean…" He covered his mouth. It was a ball being dropped. Everything made so much sense. "They tested my blood. I think… I think Naomi drugged me." 

Dean frowned, letting go of his hand. An emptiness filled Cas' chest, and he saw everything he needed to know on Dean's face. "You don't believe me," Cas said sadly. 

"It's not that…" He said carefully. 

"Then what is it?" 

"Are you… you're saying you didn't do any drugs? I found the pill bottle Cas… I saw you fucked up. I held you in my arms when you had the seizure…" 

He wanted to scream, to cry, to be fucking pissed. He curled his fingers into tight fists, the tube in the back of his hand stinging. "I didn't say I didn't do it."

Dean's jaw was tight, and he nodded slowly. "She drugged you." 

"I think she did." Cas met his eyes, challenging. 

'Why?" 

Castiel's palms stung as his nails bit into his skin on his hands. He extended his hands and stared at the halfmoon cuts in his palms and the blood droplets that rested there. His eyes burned. "I don't know, Dean. I wish I did. I wish I knew why any of this happened, but I just don't know." 

Emotion bubbled in his chest, and he found it hard to breathe. 

He felt Dean's fingers on his knee, and he squeezed gently. "I'm sorry," Dean said softly. "I believe you. Okay, Cas. I believe you." 

He looked up to Dean, his heart jumping into his throat, and a sob escaped his lips. He nodded, and Dean wrapped Castiel in a warm hug. He buried his face in the crook of Dean's neck, and he cried. He didn't mean to, or plan to, but once the floodgates opened they didn't stop. He couldn't contain it. "Dean I…"

"I know, Cas. I know," Dean whispered, his breath tickling Cas' scalp. 

His entire body shook with sobs, and he knew that if Dean’s arms weren't around him that he would shatter into a thousand pieces. 

It took several minutes of silence, of their souls cementing together, strengthening each other to a point that it'd be nearly impossible to break them. They were impenetrable. "Let me help," Cas finally said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I can talk to Naomi. I can get her to confess." 

"No," Dean said firmly, pulling back from him. He captured Cas' face in his hands and stroked his cheekbones with his thumbs. "I'm not sending you in there. It's too dangerous, especially if she has been drugging you." 

"She will be underestimating me, Dean. It's a good move." 

"No." 

Cas looked at Dean with a pain-filled expression. “Let me do this. Please.”

How could he explain to Dean that this was his penance? That this was the least that he could do for the man that he’d fallen in love with? He had to do something, _be_ something more. He had to make up for the fact that he’d been a complete disaster, and not just for Dean-- but for Inias. “Please,” he whispered, desperately. 

Dean sucked in a trembling breath, shaking his head. His tongue darted out of his mouth and wetted his bottom lip. “Okay, Cas. Okay.” 

_Later_

Doctor Castiel Novak had wires strapped to his chest, a hidden microphone that connected to Dean outside in an unmarked vehicle. He had checked out of the hospital against medical advice. They agreed only because he was going to be in the custody of a police officer who promised that he would be checked into rehab ‘toot sweet’. 

_“We can back out of this, Cas. It ain’t too late.”_

Dean was worried, and if Castiel was being honest he probably should be. Cas didn’t have his shit together on his best day, and it definitely wasn’t his best day. 

_“I’m fine, Dean.”_

_“I just… I can’t lose you, Cas. You know that right?”_

He didn’t. He hoped for it, of course, but _know_ it? How could he? It’d been a short time, short and twisted. He couldn’t trust his own memories, his own experiences. How could he know what was real and what wasn’t? That was why he was there. He had to find out the truth from Naomi, and he had to have Dean there to hear it. No matter what she said. 

_“I do now.”_

He buzzed in with his key card and walked to Naomi’s office. He was tense, stressed, and feeling the emptiness of his pocket, his fingers twitching with the desire to feel the familiarity of his plastic bottle in his hand. He pushed down the urge, even though it made him shake, and knocked on Naomi’s office door. 

“Come in,” he heard her say through the door. 

He poked his head in slowly. “Naomi? Can I speak with you?” 

Her expression darkened, and he couldn’t believe he didn’t see it before. She flattened the sides of her hair, pulling it tighter into her bun. Her jaw was tight as she spoke. “Castiel I sent you home multiple times. I am surprised that you can’t seem to follow a simple instruction.”

“I want to come back to work,” he said, pushing into the office, closing the door behind him. “Please.” 

She let out an exasperated sigh. She pressed her palms to her desk and leaned over, narrowing her eyes. “I’ve told you that I don’t believe you’re ready.” 

“I am,” he insisted. “I know I’ve been under some stress… but the time away has healed me. I promise.” 

Naomi examined him, with a raised eyebrow. “Healed you how, Castiel?” 

He lowered himself down into his seat. 

_“If she tries to drug you don’t let her. You hear me? This isn’t worth a hair on your head.”_

“I realize I was being… unreasonable. I was projecting my own insecurities and mental health on my job.” He wanted to throw up, but he bit back the bile. “I cannot apologize enough.” 

Naomi stood up, her low heels clicking on the tile floors of her office. “I must say I am happy to hear that, Castiel. I’m glad your time away has been useful.” 

_“Promise me, Cas.”_

“Would you like some tea, Castiel?” 

_“I promise.”_

“Yes,” he said quietly. It was no surprise when one sip of the tea that Naomi gave him muted his senses. He didn’t have the strength to resist, but more than that he knew that Naomi was a black widow and if she knew she had him in her web that she would strike. She had to strike for them to catch her. 

She perched on the edge of her desk and smiled down at him wickedly. “You are my favorite, Castiel. You know that right?” 

A sour taste flooded his tongue at the sound of Dean’s words in her mouth. “I want to understand,” Cas said, his tongue heavy. 

“Understand what?” 

“Why I thought there was a girl.”

She tapped the mug with her index finger. “You were confused,” she purred. 

His head spun, but he titled his head up to look at her. “I’m not confused,” he lied. 

She tilted her head to the side, looking at him almost fondly. “Why are you here Castiel, really? I liked you because you were quiet. You had no friends. You were _easy,_ but you are no longer easy.” She reached forward, stroking his hair, but he couldn’t feel it. He couldn’t feel anything. Naomi’s fingers curled in his hair, pulling his head back. She grinned at him wickedly. “I’m afraid you won’t be coming back to work, Doctor Novak.” 

“You killed Inias,” he slurred, his eyes heavy lidded. 

“He was in the way.” 

It wasn’t a confession, but it was close. If he pushed her a little more maybe she would let something slip. He grabbed for her with useless, deft fingers. 

“Just like you’re in the way,” she continued, clicking her tongue in displeasure. “Which is a shame, because you’re so pretty. If you weren’t so drugged out, so sickly, then maybe…” 

He mustered everything he had and spit up at her. He smiled weakly at the sight of her eyes bulging, and her mouth turning downward in distaste as she wiped the saliva from her cheek. “You disgusting little worm. I should’ve ended you a long time ago.” She pulled his head closer, her grip tightening on his hair. “No one will believe you, Castiel. You are a mess. Everyone knows it. That’s why I picked you. I pulled an old email from your drive and sent it from Inias’ computer after I got rid of him. It’s your verbiage. Word for word. You were in his apartment, and you didn’t wear gloves, did you? Your DNA is all over the place. I have contingencies. I’m well planned.” She was a breath from his mouth when she hissed. “And the next step is to get rid of _you_.” 

He didn’t see it coming, because her face was so close to his, blocking his vision. All he felt was a quick prick in his arm, nothing more than a pinch before his vision faded to darkness. 

_Before_

Castiel slipped his coat on and hovered in the doorway of Dean’s apartment. “We’ll solve it, Cas. Inias… the girl. All of it.” 

“I hope that you’re right.” He leaned against the door frame, unsure of why he couldn’t easily step through the threshold and into the night. Normally leaving was all that he wanted to do, but looking at Dean the outside somehow felt colder, seemed so much more daunting. He wanted Dean to ask him to stay. 

“I’m always right,” Dean said, offering him a wide, beautiful smile. 

It felt wrong that a man that beautiful existed. It wasn’t just his freckled skin, striking green eyes, or strong jawline. He was smart, funny, caring, and a damn good cop, despite what others insinuated. His arms were strong, and when Castiel was near him he felt like everything might just work out. “Always?” 

“Yeah.” He took a step toward Castiel, a smirk settling on his lips. 

Castiel’s heart started to race, and it was a high that he’d never experienced before. Dean closed the space between them, their chests brushing. “Don’t go,” Dean said quietly. “That a crazy thing to ask?”

He shook his head, because he didn’t trust his voice. 

“Then do it.” 

His eyes flickered to Dean’s lips, full and pink and so fucking beatuiful. They hadn’t kissed since that first time in the bathroom, but he wanted to kiss Dean again. He wanted to kiss him with every fiber of his being. “Okay,” he whispered. “Dean? I’m… I’m afraid.” 

“You don’t gotta be scared, Cas. I won’t let anything happen to you.” Deans knuckles brushed his cheek, sending chills up his spine.

“That’s not what I’m afraid of.” 

Screwing everything up, losing Dean, being caught all made the list. A killer? It was bad, horrible even, but somehow it all melted away when Dean’s breath was tickling his lips. 

“What is it?” 

“It's… this.” He gestured between them. 

“Us?” Dean raised an eyebrow before tilting Cas’ chin upward. “Sweetheart, I ain’t letting anything happen to us.” Then Dean kissed him. He leaned in and brushed his lips against Cas’. 

“I ain’t letting you go, Cas,” Dean murmured against his mouth. 

He let out a sigh into Dean’s kiss and felt his arms wrap around Dean, pulling him closer. He opened his mouth slightly to allow Dean to lick into him, taste him. They were pressed full flush against each other, and Castiel craved to be even closer to him. He wanted to blend into him, lose himself under Dean’s touch. 

Dean’s hands settled on Cas’ hips, gripping his belt to pull him even closer-- which Cas wasn’t sure was even possible. The kiss felt like a promise. A promise of something more. 

Dean pushed his coat from Cas’ shoulders, and he let it fall to the floor. Dean’s lips trailed along his jaw and down his throat, his teeth scraping. Goosebumps rose on Cas’ skin, and he felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. He unbuttoned Cas’ shirt with deft fingers, nibbling at every stretch of exposed skin on his neck, collarbone, chest. 

“Dean,” he gasped. “Should we… talk about this?” 

“What do you want to talk about, pretty eyes?” Dean asked, his voice low, rough, _wanting._ Cas felt his fingers running over his chest, down his stomach. Dean’s green eyes met Castiel’s own. 

“Is this just…” 

“I think I’m fallin’ for you, Cas.” Dean’s voice was low, his face soft, his lips parted in ragged breaths. 

That was all that Castiel needed to hear. He shrugged off his shirt, and Dean followed suit tugging it over his head. And then they were kissing, hands exploring, lips blending together, eyelashes tickling cheeks. 

It wasn’t a far stumble to the bed in the small studio apartment. Castiel found himself falling backwards, hitting the bed breathlessly. Dean hovered over him, backing up far enough to look down at him. “You’re so damn beautiful, Cas.” 

He reached up and touched Dean’s cheek. He wanted to trace the freckles on his cheeks, but Dean turned his head and placed a warm, soft kiss to Castiel’s palm. “You’re beautiful, Dean.” 

Dean’s cheeks redden, blush dancing up his cheekbones. Cas’ stomach flips at the sight of Dean feeling embarrassed, vulnerable. 

“I think I’m falling for you as well,” Castiel admitted, shyness flooding his tone. 

He’d never said it to anyone. He’d never _felt_ it before Dean. He missed Dean before he ever left him. He felt safe with him. Thought about him as he fell asleep. Despite the murder, and the fear and uncertainty, Dean was the only thing that made him feel sane. 

“Well fuck me sideways,” Dean whispered, his eyes wide in happy surrpise. 

Castiel sucked in his breath. “I can certainly try…” 

And then Dean laughed, one of those big-belly, full body laughs that wsa contagious. Cas couldn’t hold it back as a laugh bubbled up in his own stomach, bursting out of his lips in an uncontrollable laughter. 

Dean fell on his back next to Castiel, holding his stomach, tears filling his eyes as seeing Cas laughing made him bust up even harder. “Shit… Cas… you’re going to kill me,” he gasped. 

His ribs hurt as his body convulsed with each gasp of breath that he managed between bursts of giggles. The two men turned on their sides and looked at eachother. Their chests were exposed, and Cas reached forward and touched Dean’s cheek, still grinning. His face was sore from laughing so hard, and there was this warmth in his chest. “I like that,” he whispered. 

“LIke what?” 

“You. You making me laugh.” 

“I like making you laugh, Cas.” 

He could lay there with Dean forever, just looking at him. “Keep making me laugh,” he whispered as he leaned in and kissed Dean softly, their lips brushing gently. 

“Always,” Dean murmured against Cas’ mouth. “Always.” 


	8. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by [Deancebra](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24229972) and Beta'd by @meowmeowsamurai

**Dean**

It wasn’t functional, but when has anything that Dean Winchester has done been  _ functional?  _

He signed in at the front desk and walked down the long hallway. It was the fifth door to the right, he had it memorized at this point. The door was unlocked, as it always was, because he wasn’t permitted a lock. He was too unstable, and it was understandable given the circumstances. Dean opened the door and stepped through the threshold. “Hey,” he said softly into the dark room. 

There was a muffled response through the darkness, and Dean shook his head. “Listen, man. The light is good for you. We’ve talked about this.”

“No ‘s not.” 

Dean smiled and shook his head, his heart aching. “I’m going to open the curtains.” 

“No.” It came out as a whine, which normally would irritate him, sending a sharp pain through his temple, but it didn’t. Not now. Not anymore. 

“Come on,” he pleaded. “I want to see you.” 

There was a huff and shuffling, a groan from the bed as he moved with a bit of struggle. “Fine.” 

Dean walked through the room, stepping over piles of clothing, discarded blankets and pillows that were thrown off in fits of frustration. 

He opened the heavy, dark curtains, letting the sunlight stream in through the windows. He turned to find Castiel twisted in a pile of blankets, looking sleepy and riddled with irritation. Dean smiled at him warmly, nonetheless. “Good morning.”

“What is so good about it?” Cas groached. 

Dean walked to him and leaned down to kiss his pouty lip. “I get to see you and,” he said, standing back up, “Naomi was convicted today.” 

They’d caught her. Her confession’s to Castiel were enough, and he was not only deemed a victim of her, but also a hero. 

“Okay,” Cas said quietly. 

He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Is it any better today?” 

Dean hadn’t gotten to him in time, Cas broke his promise, and he barely made it. It could’ve been worse, but it was bad...really fucking bad. 

Naomi had poisoned him. Cas told him that he thought it was whatever she used to drug him before, to confuse him… but he was caught. It was arsenic. A huge dose. It was a miracle that he was alive, but he didn’t escape unscathed. 

The sun caught Cas’ blue eyes, and he sat up with some struggle. “I haven’t gotten up to try,” Cas admitted. 

“Let’s get up.” Dean offered a hand to him, and Cas took it. He pulled Cas up, his weight straining on Dean’s arm. He slid his arm through Cas’ and held him at the waist. “We should put on your shoes.” 

“I’m fine,” Cas said through gritted teeth. 

He had been in a coma for a month and was still recovering. The poison damaged his nerves, and he was working with a physical therapist to learn his new way of life. There was a chance that he would never regain that feeling back. Dean had been with him everyday, honoring his promise of making Cas laugh, being with him, loving him despite his bad attitude and continuous struggles. 

Cas’ nails were planted in Dean’s arm, stinging the skin, but he didn’t mind, because when he ran into that room, gun extended only to find Cas slumped in his chair with a broken mug at his feet on the floor, Dean’s heart stopped in his chest. He knew then that there wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do to see Cas again.  _ “Get on the fucking ground! Naomi Smith you’re under arrest for the murder of Meg Masters…”  _ He couldn't breath. The EMT’s were running in after him, poised, and ready to help. He felt far away, like he was in a dream, and every day he regretted letting Cas go into that room. 

He was a fool. 

They stepped outside, and Cas sucked in the fresh air. “Summer,” he commented. “I never liked it before.”

“Why not?” 

Cas smiled a bit, turning his face to the sun. “Didn’t like to be outside.”

“Ah so that’s why you’re so pale.” 

Castiel shot him a look, and Dean grinned back at him. “Before being inside, locked in that morgue was the only place I felt like myself…” 

“How about now?”

“Now… the only place I feel like myself is when I’m with you.” He tilted his head to the side, leaning into Dean’s touch just a bit more than he had been before. 

“When did you turn into such a sap, Cas?” 

Dean felt Cas’ shoulder nudge him in defiance at the question which just made him grin wider. 

“Maybe when I almost died?” 

Dean’s heart cracked at that and ached deep inside of his chest. “Yeah,” he commented quietly, squeezing Cas’ waist. “Made me a sap, too.” 

“I was kidding,” Cas said, looking up at Dean, squinting from the sunlight. 

“Not funny.” He leaned his head against Cas’ as they walked. “You know, I was thinkin’ about that first day on Meg’s case.” 

They didn’t talk about it much. It was a potential trauma trigger for Cas, and when he said it, Cas’ blue eyes seemed to glaze over, but it was on Dean’s mind, and he couldn’t shake it. 

He felt Cas tense under his fingers. “What about it?” 

“I asked you to call me if you found out anything… I did think things were weird about the case, but more than anything I wanted you to call me. I just wanted to see you again.” 

Cas looked up at him incredulously. “You’re just saying that.” 

“I’m not,” Dean said, defensively. “I’d seen you around before, and I always thought you were handsome.” 

Cas clicked his tongue and shook his head. “I’m odd.” 

“Yes, I never said you weren’t.” Dean grinned down at him. “But I’m kind of into it.” 

Cas laughed, filling Dean with joy that seemed to warm his entire being. “I was thinking… after all of this is over maybe you’d want to…” Why was it so hard? He loved Cas. Cas loved him. The worst part was over. The bad guys were  _ gone _ . As far as what Cas said things were clear in his head for the first time in a long ass time. So why was it so hard? 

“I would want to what, Dean?” 

“Um… maybe… stay with me? And Sammy. He’s back with me now and doin’ good by the way.” 

Cas smiled up at him warmly, his cheek not rising completely from the damage to his nerves, but the smile traveled all the way up, settling in his blue eyes. “I’m glad to hear that.” 

It was like he’d asked the guy to prom. Butterflies fluttered in his stomach, making his fingers tap at Cas’ side. “Yeah, it’s good.” 

“Yes,” Cas agreed. 

“And uh, the rest?” 

“Hm?” 

Dean stopped their walking and turned to face Cas, still keeping a hold of his hip. “If you don’t want to stay with me, Cas, just say it. Okay? Can’t take this…” 

His beautiful lips parted and a laugh escaped them, poking at Dean’s annoyance, making his own jaw twitch. “What the fuck is so funny?” Dean snapped. 

“You,” Cas said softly, reaching forward and touching Dean’s nose. Even the minimal contact had chills running up his spine. “Asking questions you already know the answer to.” 

“I don’t know the answer. That’s why I asked.” 

Cas’ reached his thumb up and touched Dean’s bottom lip, stroking it gently. “Of course I will. I’m not in a good place right now… I haven’t been for a long time. I don’t know when I will be okay, but I do know one thing. When I’m with you, I feel sane.” 

Dean pulled Cas to him then, in a pressured, feverish kiss. 

* * *

* * *

Castiel closed his eyes, leaning into the kiss, the warmth of Dean’s lips fading into his own. He pulled back, breathlessly, opening his eyes to tell Dean that he loved him, and of course he would live with him. It felt like the most pointless question that had ever been asked, but he had his answer anyway. He opened his eyes and his stomach dropped out from under him, his breath ripping out of his body like he’d been punched. 

Dean was gone.

The outside air. 

The grass under his feet. 

He stood in the morgue, his hands dripping wet from where he’d scrubbed them in the sink trying to stop the bleeding, and he was staring at the table in front of him. The table that had a woman laying out, exposed, her chest sewn up, her hair spilling out across the shining silver.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!


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